


Lost and Found

by Citlali, tj_teejay



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 18:47:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 64
Words: 175,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5059933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Citlali/pseuds/Citlali, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tj_teejay/pseuds/tj_teejay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slavery-AU,<br/>It is not slavery; it's social reform.<br/>Matt falls into a system he can't get out of, and it almost destroys him.<br/>Foggy helps him find a way to move forward.<br/>And now with co-writer <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/tj_teejay">TJ_TeeJay</a>, the fic continues!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lost

**Author's Note:**

> The story is meant to be disturbing.  
> This is a Slave AU story and includes elements of past abuse, non-explicit sexual assault, victim blaming, and general unfairness.  
> Horrible things have happened to both Matt and Foggy... and horrible things keep happening because they live in a horrible world where many people have no problem with the fact that a large portion of the population are enslaved to an unjust social system. 
> 
> Thanks Tj_Teejay for guest-writing chapter 57 :)  
> Tj_Teejay is a superhero and has gone through all the previous chapters and done some fabulous editing.

“Hey,” a voice said from the door. “Mind if I sit here a while?”

Matthew frowned. There was no one else in the room. The voice belonged to a patient. A young man he’d encountered a few times on his rounds collecting the dirty linen baskets from the patient rooms. He recognized his voice because he always said hello and tried to make small talk. It wasn’t Matthew’s job to talk. He would get in trouble if he was late, and so he usually tried to be polite but brief.

Today, the young man sounded tired. He smelled like medicine.

He hadn’t answered, but the young man entered anyway and sat down on a chair by the wall. “It’s quiet down here. I like it.”

“This is the laundry room,” Matthew said.

“I noticed. This is where you work?”

“In the mornings.”

“Hmm.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“Nope, just hanging out. So you’re blind, right?”

“Uhm, yes.”

“That’s okay, I’m bald. At least for now. Are you part of the state lease program?”

Matthew briefly held up his wrist with the ID tag on it. “I am.” Matthew continued working and the young man continued sitting.

“Does anyone know you’re down here?” Matthew asked after a while.

“No. That’s kinda the point. I told the nurse I was going for a walk.” He stood up and walked around. He leaned against the folding table. “My name's Foggy. What’s yours?”

“Matthew,” Matthew said.

“Hi, Matthew.”

“Hi.” It was kind of weird to be talking to someone. He figured Foggy must be lonely. He’d been in the hospital for a long time already.

*****

That was only the first time Foggy came to the laundry room. After that, he visited every day. Sometimes he talked a lot, sometimes hardly at all. Matthew continued his work while he was there. He liked Foggy’s voice. He liked listening to what he had to say. He talked about sports, especially baseball. He talked about his friends from high school. He talked about how he’d just started college before getting sick.

“Which one?” Matthew asked.

“Columbia University.”

“Me too,” Matthew answered. He hardly spoke, mostly keeping it to yes or no and the odd 'hmm' to let Foggy know he was listening. As soon as he said it, he felt both exhilarated and afraid. He hadn't even allowed himself to think about it for a long time.

“You were a student?” Foggy asked.

“Not yet, but I’d been accepted. I wanted to do law school.”

“I could hardly believe it when I got my acceptance letter. They were pretty good about it when I notified them I had to put things on hold for a while. They told me I can come back. If I get better.”

Matthew rubbed at the identification tag on his wrist.

*****

The most remarkable thing was that Foggy kept coming back. He was smart about it, too. When Matthew's supervisor was around, Foggy came and sat down, explaining he was on his daily exercise walk and he needed a place to rest a moment before moving on. He never tried to talk to Matthew when anyone else was in the room. He only stayed to talk when it was just the two of them.

“I don’t want to risk getting you in trouble,” Foggy explained. “I don’t want you to think it’s because I don’t want to talk.”

“Thank you,” Matthew answered.

*****

Eventually, Matthew told Foggy a few funny stories of his own from his high school days, but he liked listening to Foggy’s stories more.

“How did you get detained by the Centre?”

Matthew didn't want to talk about it. He felt embarrassed and ashamed of what happened to him. It shouldn't have happened. But if he didn't talk about it then the Centre would keep doing what it always did. Someone had to challenge the system.

“I grew up in an orphanage, so after high school I applied for transitional housing assistance. Just somewhere to live until getting a room in the dorms. The director was uncomfortable with having a disabled tenant and transferred me to the Centre-care program for the disabled. It was— it wasn’t what I was used to. I didn’t grow up in a special needs facility.

“I tried to run away and I got caught and detained at the Centre. Foggy, you have no idea what it’s like there. I got— I got mad when they didn't let me out in time for school to start, and I started a fight. One of the guards got hurt, and I was arrested. I got sent to conditional training. Now here I am.”

Conditional training was where the state-ward detainees were sent to be taught to be lease-workers. It was essentially a prison.

“How long is your detainment?”

“Indefinite.” He made a fist briefly to stop his hand from shaking. It didn't help. “Their reasoning was that I already belonged to the Centre because I’d been in the Centre-care program. How… how is that legal? I was never part of Centre-care, I was only there for transitional housing. I never consented to anything. After my sentence is complete, my status will revert to Centre-care as a state-ward.”

“How many times have you tried to run away?” Foggy asked.

“So far? Four.”

“Maybe next time.”

Matthew nodded slightly but said nothing.

*****

“Are you going to be alright?” Matthew asked on the day Foggy stopped by, sat down and didn’t talk, even though there was no else in the room. Matthew could smell strong medicines again.

“I don’t know. I’m having a hard time being optimistic today,” he admitted. “Sometimes I wonder if I just to stop and let things happen. I mean, it’s natural right? My aunt told me there’s a reason for everything, even if we might not understand it at the time. Maybe this is happening to me so that something worse doesn't get me in the future. I don't think I'm going to beat this. What's the point in fighting when I know I'm not going to win?” Foggy stopped and coughed.

“You don't know that.” 

“Right. You're right. I just feel like crap today and I’m tired.” He stopped again. “Sorry. A shitty attitude must be one of those side effects they don’t tell you about. I’ll feel better tomorrow. I should go.”

“Please don’t go. Not unless you want to,” Matthew said quickly. “I like when you’re here.”

“Thanks,” Foggy answered. “I’m sorry I'm not good company right now.”

“You’re always good company.” Matt stopped folding and stepped up close, closer than he’d ever been to Foggy before. He leaned down and kissed Foggy’s forehead and then went back to work.

Foggy stayed.

*****

Foggy continued visiting each day. He wasn't getting better—on bad days he hardly spoke at all, but he still came to visit. Matthew focused on telling more funny stories about his childhood to fill in the silence.

*****

“I’m going to get better,” Foggy said. He’d just come off several bad days during which he hadn’t been able to visit at all. This was a good day, comparatively.

“Of course you are.” Matt tried to angle himself to the left, unsure if the sensitive area around his left eye had bruised and if Foggy could see it.

If he did see it, at least Foggy didn’t ask how it happened, and Matthew was grateful.

“My birth-mother’s a lawyer. She came to visit me the other day. I told her about what happened to you.”

“You what?”

“I asked her to look into your case. Apparently, because you had applied for transitional housing, it meant you were still dependant on the state, and when you got transferred to Centre-care, that dependant status was transferred to them so that they could receive your funding.”

“So they do control my status? It was legal?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Is there any way to undo it?” Matthew asked.

“Not as a state-ward.” Foggy was quiet for a moment. “What they did to you isn’t right. I bet together we could find a way to screw the Centre and get them to set you free. We’ll change the fucking law if we have to.”

Matt laughed. “We?”

“Yeah, of course we. I’ll become a lawyer. My birth-mother makes a lot of money; I’ll work for her and make enough to buy your lease. I’ll make sure no one hurts you anymore, and you can help me do the lawyer stuff. You said you wanted to be a lawyer too, right? We’ll be fucking awesome lawyers.” Foggy leaned forward and coughed again.

Matthew thought about it. Foggy was temporary, just like all good things. Foggy was losing his battle with the cancer, and Matthew could tell he didn’t have a lot of time left. Definitely not enough time to go to school, become a lawyer, and change the world. It hurt to think about.

But if Foggy _did_ get better…

How long would it take to get through school? Law school was three years. Four years for a undergrad program before that. Seven years, maybe a few years after that to make enough money to buy a lease. Ten years?

If Foggy was serious, who was to say in ten years he’d even want to buy Matthew's lease anymore? Could he make it that long? Matthew knew he was at a disadvantage. He hated being marginalized as disabled. He’d worked hard since the accident to be independent. He knew how to fight, he knew how to survive, and he knew if he could escape the Centre, he could make it on his own.

He hated the Centre for taking his future away from him. He hated the Centre for taking his independence away from him. He hated everything about his life. He hated the things he had to hear and could do nothing about, and the helplessness of never being allowed to make his own choices.

Ten years? If Foggy could do the things he said, if Foggy could buy his lease and they could work together to change the system, he’d hold on for as long as he needed to.

“I’d like that.” Matt said.

*****

Foggy didn't get better, and the day came that he could no longer take his walks and visit the laundry room. Matthew folded the linens in silence. When he made his rounds, he tried to do everything before Foggy’s room as fast as possible to give himself an extra minute to visit. It was never very long, just enough time to say hello and tell Foggy a quick story if there was no one else in the room with him.

When he listened, he heard Foggy’s heart beat and the faint whoosh of blood through his circulatory system. He could smell… the smell that had been Foggy was faint and mostly replaced with medicine and illness. Matthew had worked in the hospital long enough to know what death smelled like.

Foggy was dying. Matthew already knew that.

Matthew also knew his lease was about to be sold, and he would be sent somewhere else very soon.

Several people had come to meetings, and he’d been pulled into the room to stand in the corner so they could assess him. He knew he wasn’t going to be working at the hospital for much longer.

He took the chance. He knew his own ID number. He tore off a piece of paper from a bulletin board that felt smooth and mostly unused. He found a pencil on his supervisor’s desk. He wrote down the numbers hoping that they were legible. He ran his fingers over the indents of the print—it felt okay.

The next day as he collected the dirty laundry, he snuck into Foggy’s room. Foggy was sleeping, but he placed the folded paper into Foggy’s hand and closed his fingers over it. “Please get better. I need you,” Matthew whispered and prayed that Foggy had heard him.

The day after that, when he delivered linens to Foggy’s room, the bed was empty and a health care aide was sanitizing the room for the next patient.

That night, Matthew cried.


	2. Found

Foggy went to the Centre-Market alone.

Today would be the day.

Foggy had a plan. This was happening. All he had to do was make his claim.

For all the political power and influence that The Centre held, the market was little more than just a warehouse outside the city. In hindsight, taking the bus had been a bad idea and he should have accepted Rosalind’s offer to have a driver take him there and back, but this was something he felt it was important to do on his own. He stood outside for about five minutes, just trying to keep his heart from hammering right out of his chest.

He was going to do this.

He walked right up to the main door, passed it by and entered through the service entrance instead. Why not? He already knew what the offices looked like; the sanitized face of a legalized slave trade. He wanted to know what was inside.

He expected it would be bad, but of course, it was worse than that. Cells were lined up in rows through the area. The only thing Foggy could compare it to, was the dog pound in Hell’s Kitchen, and the pound was probably a nicer place. Each cell was about eight by five feet, contained a toilet and a rubber mat on the floor. The front was thick transparent plastic with circular holes at the top and a sliding door in front.

Occupied cells showed little movement, the people inside either huddled on their mat under a blanket or hunched in the far corner.

It was strangely quiet, other than the sound of someone crying in the distance.

He didn't get much of a chance to look around, someone noticed he didn't belong and directed him towards the buyer’s room.

*****

This room was ostentatious. It was painted bright white with a dark grey carpet and a mahogany bar to the side. Foggy was asked to have a seat on the plush leather couch and was offered a beverage. He declined.

The attendant assured him a sales agent would be with him soon to facilitate the acquisition. He felt nervous; maybe he should have accepted that beverage.

The sales agent, an immaculately groomed middle-aged man with greying hair, entered first. “Welcome to Centre-Market.”

Foggy shook his hand. They took a seat across from each other on the couches. and the sales agent took out a leather clipboard and pen. He asked for identification and Foggy gave him his ID It got written down and passed back.

Terms were discussed. Foggy was the lease supervisor with authorization rights; his birth-mother Rosalind was the primary leaseholder. The lease was a three-year contract, at which time they would have the option to return him to Centre or renew. Should they decided to break the lease before that time, they would need to apply for a transfer and find a new owner to take up the remainder.

Were the terms acceptable? Foggy signed. 

The attendant arrived with the ward shortly after. Her hand was wrapped tightly around the upper arm of the man she guided. It was obvious she took no pleasure in her job, but she performed it with professional disdain. She was a petite young woman with short black hair wearing a trimmed business suit.

The ward’s step was hesitant as she pushed him forward and maneuvered him into position in the middle of the room. When she let go of his arm, the relief on her face was palpable. She stepped away as though worried proximity may contaminate her image.

Foggy jumped up, this was him.

He looked older, of course. His hair was shorter now, and a cloth was wrapped over his eyes like a blindfold. There was a faint scar on his jaw. He looked tired, too thin, too pale. He wore a dull grey uniform with the Centre logo printed on the front. A metal collar was locked snugly around his neck.

The sales agent placed himself beside Foggy and tilted his head to the side slightly, considering. He looked at Foggy and then back at the ward and thinned his lips in an estimation of a smile. “I understand your mother is the leaseholder and has purchased the lease on her private account rather than corporate?”

Foggy nodded, not yet trusting his voice.

“For the price, you could not have done better. I am sure you will find him quite easy to control, using the recommended strategies. As unfortunate as it was, his last placement has at least made him remarkably docile. We have not had a single issue since he came into our hands. I understand this will be your first. So many prospective buyers have unrealistically high expectations, only to get their hopes dashed by purchasing a ward with too much self-determination. It is a wise decision to start from the bottom and build your way up. You can always choose to upgrade on your next purchase.”

He passed a piece of paper with the ward’s summary details on it, and Foggy glanced at it briefly.

 _Work Class: Disabled (assistance recommended, vision impaired)_  
_Health Condition: Rehabilitative progress poor_   
_Implants: Spinal: GPS Immobilizer_   
_Collar: Neckband: Electrical training control non-release/remote/key_   
_Curfew: Mandatory_  
_Recommended Discipline: Level-5 correctional/punitive_

Foggy was already aware of the details in the file. He’d read it so many times he could probably recite it by heart.

It had the information that Matthew had been blind since childhood, classified as disabled, and recommended for work consisting of simple repetitive tasks. His discipline record was reported as poor, requiring strict and consistent interventions.

There had been numerous escape attempts in the first couple of years, ranging in success from a couple of days to a couple of weeks. But there’d been no successful runs since being implanted with a GPS monitor and immobilizer. If he strayed farther than the programmed distance programmed by his leaseholder, the immobilizer in his back would activate and induce temporary paralysis allowing for swift recovery.

Rosalind had warned him it had been a cheap sale. Matthew was damaged. She asked Foggy if he was sure he wanted this person, certainly it was possible to find a better match.

She had made her exasperation evident, but it hadn't been her choice.

Still, she did it. She made it happen. 

This was Matthew.

Holy shit, this was actually happening!

Foggy stepped closer.

“Would you like to inspect your lease-purchase?” the sales agent asked.

“No,” Foggy said. “Where is the contract?”

He saw Matthew’s head twitch slightly at the sound of his voice. Did he recognize him? They’d known each other for, what? A few months four years ago? Foggy remembered how expressive Matthew’s face had been, how his eyes reflected his emotions so clearly, and how unaware Matthew had been of how remarkable he was.

Foggy wished he could see Matthew’s eyes now to get a handle on what he might be feeling, but the blindfold covered half his face. It had been four years since the hospital, even if Matthew remembered him, to be recognized just by his voice was pushing it.

The sales agent pulled out the form. “Please sign to acknowledge that you are aware that this ward is part of our disability program.”

Foggy signed.

The sales agent pulled out another form. “Please sign to acknowledge that you aware that this ward is blind, and should he be unable to fulfill working tasks, the Centre is not liable to provide compensation for the loss of productivity.”

Foggy signed.

“Please sign to acknowledge that this ward has been reclaimed by Centre due to leaseholder misconduct and has undergone rehabilitation and is currently receiving medical attention for a severe eye infection. Acknowledge that any infirmities or enfeeblements are the responsibility of the current leaseholder and the Centre is not liable for any further expenses in relation thereof.”

Foggy signed.

“Please sign to acknowledge that this ward is part of our benevolence program and hence is eligible for a discount under a charitable tax credit.”

Foggy gripped the pen tightly.

The sales agent cleared his throat. “Please sign to acknowledge. Or do you wish to decline the contract?”

Foggy signed.

The sales agent shook Foggy’s hand yet again. “Thank you for your patronage. Please see our service desk at checkout for delivery options.” 

Foggy sighed. More time wasted. “I’ll take him with me now.”

“That is not recommended.”

“I’ve signed the papers. Technically, he is mine now. I’ll take him right away,” Foggy pressed.

“He hasn’t been adequately processed.”

“What does that mean?”

“Final inspection before delivery.”

“I’ll wait,” Foggy said. “Some decent clothes would be good, too.”

The sales agent shook his head. “As leaseholding supervisor, you are required to supply the necessary lodging and service adaptations. I will also need to go over the guidelines with you. There are approved disciplinary tools listed in the acquisition. These items are typically delivered with the ward.”

Foggy sighed. The attendant was talking about the punishment devices and restraints. “Okay, right. Those things can be delivered.” Foggy turned back to Matthew. “He has something other than this to wear though, right?”

“No, sir.”

“Fine. If I take him today, how long do you need to do your final processing?”

“If you insist, we can have him ready for you in an hour.”

Foggy checked his watch. It was still early in the day, he had the time. Who was he kidding, he'd make the time, even if he didn't have it.

The attendant and sales agent left the room, taking Matthew with them. Foggy sat back down on the couch and fidgeted with his phone. Forty minutes later, the sales agent returned with Matthew at his side.

“If you will allow me to demonstrate?”

He held up a small cloth bag and pulled out the security remote, performing a brief tutorial on how to set the GPS and immobilizer settings.

“... and so a short press of the button is enough for a behavioral correction through the electric training collar.” He pressed the button, and Matthew flinched. “A longer press will result in—”

Foggy grabbed the remote before the sales agent could demonstrate but not before he saw Matthew brace himself for the expected shock.

“I think we’re good here,” Foggy said.

The final item was a small unmarked plastic vial. “Have the ward apply the medicine to his eyes twice a day until the irritation resolves.”

“Is there somewhere I can talk to him alone?”

“You may use this room, sir,” the sales agent said. “When you are ready to leave, please make your way down the hall and sign out at the front desk.” He turned a dial on the wall from green to red to shut down the monitoring system.

The door closed and they were alone.

“So. Matthew,” Foggy said as he stepped forward, not knowing where to start. How do you introduce yourself to the person you’ve just bought? “I'm not sure if you remember me. It was a few years ago. I’m Foggy.”

“Foggy.” Matthew’s voice was rough and barely a whisper. “Foggy, from the hospital?” he asked.

“Yes!” Foggy stepped forward and touched Matthew’s arm. “Awesome, I was worried you wouldn’t—”

Matthew’s hand twitched, and then he closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around Foggy in a sudden hug. “I thought you died.”

Foggy hugged back, at first gently and then more firm. So yes, Matthew remembered him. That was good.

“Hey. I told you I’d find you.”

“Your room was empty.”

“I’m fine, I just, they moved me to a different clinic for treatment, that's all.” 

Matthew held on a while longer and then stepped back. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I wanted to hug you too.” Foggy hesitated. “Do you mind if I remove the cloth? What's wrong with your eyes?”

“I’m blind.”

“I know. But the cloth.” Foggy reached up and touched the cloth on Matthew’s head. It was tied tightly behind his head and Foggy had to struggle with the knot to get it undone. At closer inspection, Foggy realized the cloth wasn't even clean. He cringed a bit when he finally saw what was underneath.

Matthew’s eyes were crusted and puffy. Foggy led him over to the couch and guided him to sit down. He took a napkin and wet it with cold purified water from the pitcher of drinking water and gently wiped at the residue.

“Can you open your eyelids for me?”

It took a moment, but Matthew did as he was asked. His eyes were filmy, swollen and bloodshot.

“What happened?” Foggy asked.

Matthew turned his head away. ”They’re not— they’re not good. Can I have the cloth back? Please. May I have the cloth back?” He held out his hand. 

“No. Matthew, I'm sorry, the cloth is dirty. It will just make it worse.”

In response, Matthew closed his eyes and kept them closed. He looked worse with the blindfold off, because Foggy could now see the dark circles and redness around his eyes.

“How about sunglasses?” Foggy offered and dug his sunglasses out of his pocket and carefully placed them on Matthew’s face.

“Thank you.”

“We’re ready to go. Do you want me to lead you, would that be easier?”

“I can follow.”

Foggy sighed and walked until they reached the stairs and then paused.

“Stairs. Down fourteen steps,” Foggy said and waited while Matthew found his footing. He signed out at the front desk. The air outside the warehouse felt incredibly fresh and Foggy took a deep breath before looking back at Matthew again. Matthew was standing still, taking the same relieved breath of air after the pungent smells from within.

“How long have they had you in here?”

Matthew lowered his head again. “Mm, since the last— Since I was taken from my previous placement.”

“You don't know how much time?”

“Weeks, I think.”

Foggy sighed, he didn't like the thought of anyone being in there that long. 

“I made it to the University. I’m a student now, just starting my first year in the undergrad program. So that’s where we’re headed, to the college. I’ve got a double dorm room, so we'll be roommates.”

He was about to say if that’s okay, but then stopped himself. It wasn’t a choice. He led Matt past the parking lot and down the road several blocks until they left the industrial area and entered the commercial district. 

“But first, you need some real clothes. I am not taking you on the bus like this. There’s a few shops in town we can check out.” They were attracting enough stares as it was just on the main street, and he didn’t even want to imagine what it would be like on public transit.

Matthew stumbled as Foggy suddenly stopped. “This walking behind me thing isn’t going to work out.” Foggy pulled him aside on the sidewalk and out of the pedestrian traffic.

“Sorry. Where do you want me to walk?”

“Beside me.”

“That’s… But it’s easier if I follow.”

Foggy sighed.

“I can hold your elbow if that’s better?” Matthew offered.

Foggy nodded, and then laughed at himself. “Right. You can’t see that. I just nodded.”

They walked along the businesses on the main street. “Here we are.” Foggy opened a door and pulled Matthew inside.

“What kind of clothes do you like?” Foggy asked.

Matthew took a deep breath and almost smiled. “It smells good in here.”

“Not an answer.” Foggy laughed and then kicked himself when he saw Matthew freeze. “Hey, it’s okay. Take your time.” 

“These aren't…” Matt stumbled on the words again and Foggy waited. “These aren't ward clothes.”

“I was hoping you wouldn't mind wearing something less conspicuous.” 

“What do you want me to wear?” 

“I would like for you to tell me what kind of clothes you prefer.”

“You expect me to choose?”

“Yeah. I mean, within reason. I’m going to make sure you aren’t committing any fashion crimes, but otherwise, just tell me what you like and I’ll aim you in the right direction. Any color preference?”

It took a long time. Mostly because Foggy was picky about finding things that Matthew genuinely liked. He discovered that Matthew preferred soft, loose-fitting clothing, long sleeves, and the color red when forced to choose something other than black or grey.

Foggy stuck to jeans and sweatpants because you can never go wrong with jeans and sweatpants. The shop clerk was wearing her ID bracelet identifying her a state-ward, and seemed at least a little sympathetic to the situation. She was patient, at least, and didn't make any rude remarks.

They ended up with multiple bags, and it was a small wardrobe but complete nonetheless. Foggy threw the workfare outfit in the trash at the store and had the shop clerk cut off the tags on the new clothing, so Matthew could wear his new clothes right away.

Before leaving the store, Foggy stopped Matthew to do one more thing. “This isn’t working.”

Matthew looked panicked at the implication. “What did I do?”

“Nothing, you’re fine. It’s the collar.” Foggy reached for his neck and as soon as he touched Matthew’s skin he flinched.

“It’s okay. I’m removing it.” Foggy said. “Hold still.”

Matthew held still as Foggy unlocked the collar. “Is this okay?” Foggy asked.

There were marks on Matthew’s neck from the metal collar. Burn marks and scars on the back of his neck where the prongs had pressed into his skin and shocked him who knows how many times.

He watched Matthew tentatively raise his hand to his neck, stopping before actually making contact with the skin, and then nod. “Thank you.” He swallowed roughly and cleared his throat.

Foggy gave Matthew a bag to carry in his free hand and then guided Matthew's hand to his elbow before picking up the two others.

It was time to catch the bus. Foggy led Matt to a bus stop and they took a seat on the bench to wait. 

Foggy cleared his throat. “You probably have a ton of questions. I guess you are wondering what you'll be doing. I was hoping you could help me study.”

“I’ve never been to college.”

“I know. Neither have I, but I figured we could maybe help each other.” 

“You want me to help you study? How?” Matthew asked in confusion.

“Well, there’s ways, right? How did you get through high school? There’s Braille and screen readers. You aren’t the only blind person in New York. Won’t be the only blind person at Columbia either, I’ve heard they’ve got pretty good accessibility options.”

“I haven’t… I haven’t used Braille since high school.”

“You just need some practice, right? We have a week before classes start.”

“But—”

They sat side by side on a bench seat, Foggy sitting on the aisle with Matt pressed against the window and their bags stuffed around their feet. Foggy didn’t say anything when he felt Matt’s fingers curl around his forearm, and he didn’t move when Matthew dozed off and his head lolled against his shoulder. Foggy relaxed into the seat and closed his eyes. It would be about an hour before they reached their next stop.

Foggy was tired. At their stop, he flagged down a cab for the rest of the trip. At Columbia University, Foggy paid the fare and led Matthew to the dorm.

“We’re staying right on campus. It’s dormitory, so it is what it is.” He guided Matthew up a flight of stairs and unlocked the door. He led him to the second single bed and tossed the bags on the mattress.

“You can organize your things however you want. This side of the room is yours. I’ve got an extra set of basic toiletries for you in the bathroom, I’ll show you where when you’re ready. There’s going to be stuff you need, so just let me know. I’m okay with sharing anything we can both use. Uh. I already signed up for my classes. We should probably start on yours ASAP.”

Matthew practically stopped breathing. “Signed up for what?”

“Your classes,” Foggy repeated.

“I don’t understand.”

Foggy passed Matthew a paper covered in small distinctive raised bumps, and Matthew ran his hand over it tentatively. He slid his fingers over the Braille several times before getting frustrated. “I can’t. I told you I haven’t touched Braille in years. I can’t— I can’t go to classes.”

“Don’t you want to?”

“Yes. But I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. Hey, it’s okay. It’s a lot all at once, I get it. We’ll practice, and you’ll remember. We've still got a week before classes start. You'll be okay. Everything has been arranged. You were planning on going to law school before all this happened, right? Does that still interest you or—”

“Yes. Law school.”

“Great. Me too. We’re both just starting, so the schedule is a full load. I’ve already got you signed up in the same core classes that I’ll be taking. Otherwise, you can choose what you want. Is that okay?”

Matthew patted the bags on his bed and started dumping the clothes out and running his hands over them. “I’m going to be a student?”

“Yes.”

“You aren’t lying?”

“Of course not.”

“I shouldn't have said that. I’m sorry.” Matthew knelt on the floor, head down. It was a submission pose. Foggy had seen leaseholders forcing their wards to kneel like that for hours while awaiting punishment. 

Foggy stopped. “Don’t do that. Get up.”

Matthew got up as Foggy instructed, but he didn’t seem to know what to do after that. Foggy took his arm gently and steered him back towards the bed to sit down. “You don’t have to do that. I don’t expect it, and I don’t want it.”

Foggy could feel the tension in Matthew, and he wasn’t sure what else to do so he rubbed Matthew’s back in slow circles. “Is this okay?”

Matthew nodded.

“Matthew,” he urged. “It’s okay. I bet you haven’t had a lot of good happen in the past few years, but I promise I’m not lying to you. I promise I’ll never mess with you like that.”

“Why?”

Foggy took a deep breath. “Why what?”

“Why are you doing all this?”

“Because I promised I’d find you.”

 


	3. Broken Pieces

Foggy tried to act normal. But just by the effort of trying to act normal, he knew he was acting weird. Not that Matthew would know what Foggy’s normal or weird would be, but he didn’t want to freak the guy out any more than he already was.

He wasn’t too freaked out at the moment, at least. Matthew was kneeling beside his bed, meticulously laying his new clothing out on the mattress, running his hands over them, carefully tearing off the purchase tags. Inspecting every inch.

“You doing okay?” Foggy asked and winced when Matthew jumped. Okay so maybe a little freaked out.

“Yes, thank you.” He started folding.

“Want to know what color it is?” Foggy asked.

Matthew froze for a moment then nodded. Foggy got up and knelt beside him. “This one is black.” He patted the shirt on the bed. Matthew followed with his hand. Feeling the fabric carefully. His hands found their way to the collar of the shirt, feeling the tag there, running his index finger over the bumps of the print. Then he folded it and placed it aside. They did the same with the other three shirts. Foggy telling him the color, “This one is grey. This one is red. This one is dark blue.” Each got folded and placed to the side.

Then came the jeans. Two pairs. “These are the same, dark blue, just like the ones you are wearing now. You said they were comfortable so I decided to just go with it.”

Matthew ran his hands over the material, around the pockets. He folded those as well.

Sweatpants. “These are both black,” Foggy said. Matthew folded them and placed them on top of the jeans.

“Underwear. Grey by the way,” Foggy narrated. Those got folded and put aside.

“Socks. Black. All the same so pairing them up won’t be an issue.” Again folded.

The last items were just boxer shorts and a couple of light t-shirts. “I grabbed these for you to use as pajamas.” Matthew felt those as well and put them aside.

The shopping bag clunked against the floor when it fell off the bed. Foggy picked it up and placed the last item inside onto his own desk to deal with later. It was the training collar.

Foggy pushed himself up and rapped his knuckles gently on the dresser beside the bed. “This is your dresser.” He shifted a little to the left. “And your desk. The Braille edition of the textbooks are on order and should be here before classes start. Do you want to wash your clothes before you wear them?”

“They smell like the store.” He poked at a shirt and then started placing them into the dresser.

Matthew finished placing his clothes. He picked up the collar and put it carefully onto his desk.

The mattress was still bare. Foggy helped him make it and then stood around wondering what to do next.

“Are you hungry?” Foggy asked.

“Yes, please.”

Foggy ordered pizza delivery. He wanted to give Matthew a bit more of a chance to get used to things before dragging him all over campus.

It was awkward. There was no way of getting around it. Foggy didn’t expect Matthew to be comfortable right away, that was fine. He just wasn’t sure what he could do to set him at ease.

“Is there anything you want me to do?” Matthew asked uncertainly. He fidgeted with the sunglasses he was still wearing and then took them off and held out his hand.

“You can use them until we find you a new pair,” Foggy offered.

Matthew put the sunglasses back on. “May I lay down?”

“Go ahead.”

He knew he was being unfair, this was just their first day together. Rome wasn’t built in a day, right? The pizza arrived. Foggy placed the box on his desk.

“Get up, time to eat,” Foggy called over and watched as Matthew groggily rolled over and sat up. He picked up a slice in a napkin. “Hold out your hand and I’ll pass it to you.”

Matthew held out his hand. He held the pizza slice carefully and then slowly raised it up to his mouth and took a bite.

“Is it okay?”

Matthew nodded. “Pepperoni,” he said.

“Do you like it?”

“Yes, it’s great,” Matthew said quickly. “Thank you.”

Foggy picked up a piece for himself and when he turned back Matthew’s slice was already gone. “Wow, that was quick. You want some more?”

Matthew nodded and held out his hand again. Foggy laughed and passed him another slice.

“Did I ever tell you about the time when I met Tony Stark?” Foggy asked.

Matthew paused mid-bite. “Tell me.”

Foggy grinned. He was one hundred percent sure that he’d already told this story to Matthew back in the laundry room, because it was always the first story he told everyone. It was his claim to fame in Hell’s Kitchen, I got run over by young drunk Tony Stark while riding my bike when I was twelve years old. This was probably how they’d started out back at the hospital, and Foggy was more than happy with using the same tactic for starting all over again.

*****

Matthew ended up eating half the pizza and fell asleep shortly after on top of his covers with the sunglasses still on his face. It was still pretty early. Foggy pulled out his notebook and started writing out a list. His eyes felt heavy. It had been a long day and he was more tired than he wanted to admit. He fell asleep with the pen still in his hand.

“Foggy. Foggy, wake up.”

Foggy opened his eyes. Matthew whispered his name again. He looked at Matthew sitting up in his bed and then looked at the clock. Eleven fifty P.M. He’d left the light on, or rather fell asleep before turning it off. “Yeah?”

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“The curfew,” Matthew said.

Foggy sat up so fast he felt his head spin. “Oh shit.”

Because Matthew had a mandatory curfew programmed into his remote. He needed to have the collar on and set by midnight, or the remote would activate the immobilizer implant.

“Where’s the collar?” Foggy asked as he tripped out of bed.

“On your desk.” Matthew held up his hand. The collar had a light on it that was blinking red.

“Where’s the remote?”

“I don’t know.”

Foggy tossed through the bags on the floor. Where the hell did he put the cloth bag they’d given him at the Centre? It wasn’t in any of the plastic bags from the clothing store. He hadn’t left it on the bus, had he?

No. Nonononono. He didn’t do that. He got down on the floor and looked under the bed. There it was. A grey bag. He pulled it out and grabbed the remote. He entered the access code.

“Foggy, the collar,” Matthew reminded him again.

Right. He upended the bag and the key fell onto the bed. He swept it and the collar up and raced over to Matthew’s bed. The collar had a hinge at the side and Foggy carefully clasped it shut around Matt’s neck, careful not to pinch the skin, and locked it in place. It was still blinking red. He entered the access code on the remote again. The blinking red light disappeared and was replaced with a solid green.

Foggy looked at the clock. Eleven fifty nine… Twelve.

“Oh shit, that was close.” Foggy felt out of breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

Matthew was gripping his mattress hard enough that his knuckles were white. “It’s okay.”

“It’s really not.” Foggy answered. “Are you okay?”

“I could feel it starting to charge.” Matthew shivered.

“Anything else I’m forgetting?”

“It’s okay,” Matthew said again. 

Foggy turned off the light and laid down. “Goodnight, Matthew.”

He listened to the bedcovers shift as Matthew lay down as well. “Goodnight, Foggy.”

*****

After the night before’s little mishap, Foggy vowed to be more careful. He couldn’t let something like that almost happen again. If Matthew hadn’t woken him up, the immobilizer implant would have activated and Matthew would have been given an electroshock strong enough to disrupt his entire nervous system. For that to happen, just because Foggy forgot to initiate the damn curfew protocol, was unacceptable.

How had it not dawned on him before the enormity of the responsibility he’d taken on? Rosalind had at least been right in one thing, Matthew was damaged, and Foggy was determined the last thing he was ever going to do was add to that.

But, at the same time, Foggy also realized there was less than a week before classes began, and there was work to be done. He started the morning with picking up some Pop Tarts in the dining hall for breakfast. Matthew sat up in bed to eat while Foggy rummaged around the mess his side of the room had become, and put some order to it. He unlocked the collar from Matthew’s neck again, and placed it and the remote in the top drawer of his dresser.

“Just because you have to wear it at night, doesn’t mean you have to wear it in the day,” Foggy explained.

And then came the next order of business.

“I’m going to the library, want to come?”

“Do you want me to?” Matthew asked.

“I would like you to tell me if you would prefer to come to the library with me or stay here.”

“Can I stay here?”

“If that’s what you want.”

Foggy already knew what he was looking for at the library. He chose three levels of Braille books. A kids’ book, a teen novel, and an adult novel. He picked up some sandwiches on the way back and was feeling pretty good about everything when he got back to the room. That was, of course, until he actually went into the room.

“I’m sorry,” Matthew said in a rush.

“For what?” Foggy closed the door behind him and stepped a bit forward. This was not a scene he wanted anyone passing by in the hall to witness. “Did something happen while I was gone? Are you okay?”

“I was—I was—I shouldn’t have. I didn’t—I should have th-thought it through better.”

He wasn’t kneeling on the floor yet, but Foggy could tell the only reason he wasn’t was because Foggy had told him not to the day before.

“What—” he started and then stopped and didn’t continue. And then he did get down on the floor, not on his knees, but sitting with his legs folded under him and hands over his face.

“What?” Foggy asked gently. He placed the bag of books and the sandwiches he picked up for lunch on his bed and got down on the floor beside Matthew.

Matthew’s breath hitched. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you want me to do.”

“Hey, hey. No. Don’t be upset.” Foggy placed his hand very gently on Matt’s shoulder. “You didn’t do anything wrong, and it wasn’t a test.” He got up and got the kids book out of the bag and placed it in Matt’s had. “This is for you.”

He watched Matthew run his hands over it.

“It’s for you to practice Braille. I’m sure it will come back to you, once you start using it again. This one is a kids’ book, just to get you back into the swing of things. I’ve also got a couple others for you to work with after that.”

Foggy pulled Matthew up and sat with him on his bed. “This is what I want you to do.”


	4. Restoration

It was a children’s book. Matthew slid his fingers over the pages and then oriented the book lengthwise on his lap with the coils at the top. 

“The first page is an alphabet.” Foggy said. He flipped the page over and Matthew felt the page. The cells were widely spaced. There were three horizontal columns. Matthew ran his fingers over the cells slowly, carefully feeling each one. He did it several times.

“So, uhm, yes I recognize this.” Matthew quietly read out the alphabet as he felt it.

“No numbers?”

“Well, numbers are just letters with a special sign in front of them,” Matthew explained. “A is one. B is two, etcetera.”

He flipped the page and scanned the cells at the top. He ran his fingers along it several times and then grinned. “This book is called, Shep And Sandie Go To The Park.” He ran his hand over the rest of the page. “There’s print as well?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you mind if I read it as I go, and you can correct me if I get anything wrong?” Matthew asked.

“Sounds good to me.”

Matthew read the first couple of pages slowly and then picked up speed as he went along. He finished and waited. “How did I do?”

“Perfect. I knew you could do it.” Foggy took the book away and the bag on his bed rustled for a moment before he came back with something much larger. He placed it on Matthew’s lap.

Matthew slid his hand over the plastic binding, and then the cells at the bound edge. “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone?”

“Is that okay?” Foggy asked.

“Yes. It’s great. I’ve read this.”

“Oh. Do you want a different one?”

“This way it will be more familiar right? This is good.” He flipped through the pages. He listened to Foggy cross back across the room and started on chapter one.

*****

“Matthew?”

He’d gotten comfortable through the afternoon. He leaned against the wall with the pillow at his back and his knees up and the book resting on his legs. When Foggy called his name, he stilled.

“I’m headed out to get supper. Do you want to come, or should I bring something back?” Foggy asked.

“Do you mind if I stay here and keep reading?”

“I don’t mind,” Foggy answered mildly. Matthew listened to him pull on a sweater and leave.

The door closed and the silence that followed was strange. It wasn’t the crushing kind of quiet, like in the other place. He liked this kind of quiet. The Centre was always loud. In the Centre, it had been the whispers and cries and breaths and heartbeats of all the other wards locked in the cages around him.

All the dorms on their floor were double, and he could hear parents saying goodbye to their children and boxes being unpacked, roommates meeting for the first time. He heard radios and TV’s and private conversations.

Alone, he stretched his senses out further. The traffic on the street, wind around the building. He liked it better when Foggy was in the room with him.

Foggy. He liked the sound of Foggy.

There’d been no one for so long. But he didn’t want to think about that.

The footsteps in the hall were heavier than they should have been. Someone carrying something. They slowed down at the door, and Matthew waited.

A knock at the door.

He debated quickly what to do, should he answer it? Would Foggy want him to? He quickly put on the sunglasses and opened the door.

“Delivery for Foggy Nelson.” Cigarettes and strong deodorant, gasoline, sweat. “Sign here.”

A tablet was thrust forward. Matthew could sense its location and shape, but he couldn’t identify what was on it. It wasn’t difficult to guess, though. There was a small window in the middle of the tablet. Matthew used his finger and made a squiggle.

The delivery man grunted and dropped the box at the door for Matthew to bring inside. He placed it on Foggy’s bed and went back to reading his book.

Foggy returned about a half hour later. A bag in his hand. Tomato sauce, noodles, oil, cheese, beef. “What’s this?” He waved at the box and then turned towards Matthew. “I just pointed at the box.”

“It was delivered.”

He listened to Foggy run his hands over the cardboard. “Matthew, come here.”

Matthew placed his book down. “Is something wrong?” Foggy took his hand and guided it up to the top of the box.

Matthew felt raised dots and checked again. “My name?”

“Yeah. Go ahead and open it, it’s from Rosalind. Well, Rosalind’s personal assistant. But still, yours.”

“Who is Rosalind?”

“Your leaseholder.”

Matthew froze. “I don’t belong to you?”

“Rosalind is my mother,” Foggy explained quickly. “Open it.”

Matthew opened the box. Inside there were more boxes of varying shapes. “What is it?”

“Your accessibility aids for class work. There’s a laptop, and screen reader, whatever Rosalind’s assistant thought was necessary. You’re going to have to sort through it and figure out what else you need, but at least it’s a start. Oh, and a cane. It folds up, here.” Foggy put the folded cane in Matthew’s hand.

Matthew sat down and rested his hand on the top of the box where his name was written in Braille. “This is mine?”

“Completely. Come on, our food is getting cold. How about we eat first and then check it out. I’ll help you with whatever you can’t do on your own, in case instructions in Braille on a disability assistance device are too much to hope for.” He laughed and passed Matthew his take-out box of lasagna.

*****

Foggy went to a party. He did invite Matthew, but he declined, again. Foggy hadn’t seemed surprised.

“I’ll be back before your curfew. Unless you think you might want to go to sleep early? I can activate the remote now.”

“I’m just going to be reading,” Matthew replied quickly. “I’ll stay up.”

Foggy said goodbye and left. Matthew listened to his steps disappear down the hall, and then waited five minutes after that. He put the book aside, stood up, and smoothed out his clothing. He touched his hair to make sure it wasn’t sticking up and attempted to flatten out the parts that were, and picked up the sunglasses and the white cane.

He’d heard people talking earlier in the day about a rally. It was a protest against the Centre and there were going to be speakers. Matthew was curious. The truth of it was, he hardly knew anything about the Centre at all. It had never been something he paid attention to before falling into the Centre-care system, and it had been all but impossible to learn anything after. No one had ever even tried to explain, and all questions were met with severe disapproval, if not outright punishment.

If he knew more… maybe he could at least understand. That was his only goal of the night.

The sleeves of his new shirt were long enough to cover the Centre-ID bracelet on his wrist. He held onto the sleeve of his right arm with his fingertips to hold it in place just in case.

How long would Foggy be gone? Long enough for him to quickly go have a look at the rally and be back before Foggy returned.

He was surprised how natural it felt to use the white cane again as he made his way down the hall, tapping it lightly against the floor as he walked. It felt… the sound of his own heart racing nearly drowned out the other sounds around him as he stepped outside. He stood for a moment in front of the dormitory building. He was outside. Alone. No collar.

There was always the implant, though.

If he tried to run… Foggy had never set the GPS and immobilizer. How far could he get before Foggy would come back and find him missing and then activate the trigger system?

The rally was being held outside Butler Library. He made his way there.

There were several tables off to the side with information. Matthew didn’t bother with any of that for a couple reasons, one being he couldn’t see to read it anyway, and another being that he had to be careful not bring anything back and get caught.

A ward having the gall to go to an Anti-Centre meeting? He shuddered to think what the punishment for that would be.

A speaker stood on a small platform with a microphone. She was already talking, and the cheap speakers distorted her voice into something oddly mechanical. Matthew stood far back and out of the crowded areas.

She spoke about unfair business practices and the disappearing jobs. Why would a business bother hiring someone they’d have to pay a wage to if they could buy a lease and have a ward do the job instead? There were no labor laws or benefits, no unions to worry about.

She spoke about unfair health care. Wards didn’t need to buy insurance. The wards were covered by the Centre. Wards didn’t contribute to country with taxes, they didn’t have to worry about the rising cost of living.

It wasn’t what he expected. Not that he had much of an expectation to begin with.

She made it sound like wards were privileged. She didn’t say anything about the terrible living conditions, the lack of autonomy, the brutal punishments suffered, or the fact that a leaseholder could get away with doing practically anything they wanted to…

_“Matthew?”_

Foggy?

Matthew spun around. Foggy wasn’t close, the voice he heard was across the lawn on the other side of the crowd. It was evening, it was dark and crowded. How well could Foggy have seen him? He turned and hurried in the other direction towards the library, and as soon as he was out of sight, he tucked the cane under his arm and ran.

If he could make it back to the room before Foggy, maybe Foggy would think it had been someone else?

He was first back to the room, of course, because he ran the entire way. He placed his shoes carefully, exactly where they had been. He placed the white care against the wall. He quickly changed out of his clothes and into the t-shirt and boxers Foggy had bought for him to sleep in. He placed the sunglasses on top of the dresser. He arranged the pillow on his bed behind his back and settled in to continue reading his book. It would look like he’d never left at all.

He couldn’t concentrate. He kept running his fingers over the cells in an attempt to focus his mind on something other than impending doom, but every time the door opened and someone entered the building, Matthew tensed.

He’d been expecting Foggy to arrive right behind him. That didn’t happen. It was hours before Matthew heard the telltale footsteps stop at their room door.

Foggy entered, smelling like the outdoors and beer. He flicked on the light that Matthew hadn’t even consciously recognized as being off. Matthew pretended that he wasn’t having trouble remembering to breathe. Foggy took off his sweater and shoes. “Did you have a good evening?” Foggy asked.

“Just reading.” Matthew answered.

“How did you know I was there?” Foggy asked.

“Where?”

“At the rally. You disappeared right after I saw you. How did you know I was there?”

“What rally?”

“Ha! Liar.”

And this. This is how it ends, Matthew thought. He went out and lied and got caught.

It had lasted two whole days, but Matthew already found a way to ruin it. He knew the Centre had already delivered the box of discipline tools. It was under Foggy’s bed.

What would Foggy use? He would make him wear the collar again, obviously. He would set the GPS immobilizer. Would he take away the Braille books? Use clamps or restraints? Lock him away somewhere? Alone?

“I never wanted this,” Foggy said.

Had he already decided to return him to the Centre-Market? Did Foggy decide Matthew wasn’t worth keeping?

“Are you okay?” Foggy asked.

Okay with having regular clothes, real food, someone who didn’t hurt him, a chance to go to school, read Braille again, and losing it all within twenty-four hours of getting it?

Matthew flinched as a hand rested on his shoulder.

“Hey. Hey, I’m not going to hurt you. Just. Relax.” Foggy’s hand rubbed at Matthew’s back and Matthew felt like his insides were being torn to shreds.

“I won’t lie again. I’m sorry.”

The circles being rubbed into his back continued. “You think I’m mad at you? Oh shit. Sorry. I have to be more careful about how I say things. I wasn’t thinking. Matthew, it’s okay. I’m not mad. I did see you at the rally though, didn’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Good. That’s good. Did you get a chance to listen to the speakers?”

“Yes. One of them.”

“That woman who was talking when I saw you?”

Matthew nodded.

“That’s too bad, because she really sucked. There were better ones after.” Foggy got up and Matthew heard him flipping through some papers.

“Are you going to send me back to the Centre?”

“No. I never wanted this, you know? This owning thing. I don’t know how else we could have done it, though. Do you know how lucky I was to find you again? I’m just glad that Rosalind agreed to help me when I found your lease available on the inventory. There’s no way I’m sending you back.”

Matthew felt several folded papers placed on his lap. He felt a slight imprint of the ink on the paper, but nothing distinct.

“You left early, so I picked up some of the flyers they were handing out at the rally. I thought maybe we could go through them together.”

“I’d like that.” Matthew unfolded one of the papers. “What does this one say?”

*****

The next time Foggy asked Matthew to go to the library with him, he agreed to go.

“I don’t want to be that guy who gets lost his first day or ends up in the wrong classroom,” Foggy said, and they ended up taking a detour to explore the campus.

They’d started out with Matthew walking behind, using the white cane, but walking behind Foggy was like trying to follow chaos. He talked constantly, describing things as they passed, and Foggy liked to look at the person he was talking to and so spent half the time walking backwards.

“I wish you could have seen the print on that guy’s t-shirt back there. I understand loving your dog, but do you really need to have it advertised on your outerwear? I just don’t get it. It was a poodle, by the way. One of those fuzzy little—”

Matthew knew what was coming. He really wanted to warn Foggy about the post coming up on his left. Somehow? He winced as Foggy crashed into it with his shoulder and tripped backwards into a garbage can.

“Ouch,” was the extent of the complaint as Foggy picked himself up.

“Maybe it will be better if you lead me? I can hold your arm while we walk,” Matthew suggested. “That way we could walk beside each other.”

Foggy grunted. “You’re sure you can trust me not to lead us off a cliff?”

“I think I can trust you for that.”

By the end of the afternoon, they’d mapped out almost all of their classes.

“Coffee?” Foggy asked.

He led them to the small café off to the side. He stopped briefly before going in. “I set up a spending account for you.” He dug a card out of his wallet and put it in Matthew’s hand. “It’s not much. Just, you know, enough for extra things you might need.”

Matthew ran his thumb along the edge of the card.

“I don’t mean for everything,” Foggy added quickly. “Just for stuff you might want. So you won’t be so dependent on me.”

“Like lattes?”

Matthew could hear the smile in Foggy’s response. “Exactly! Like lattes.”

“Can I buy one for you?”

“I’d rather you use it on yourself. But seeing as the whole point is for you to not have to ask, you are kind of defeating the purpose by asking me.”

Matthew grinned. “But it’s polite, to ask first before buying someone a drink.”

“If that is how you want to spend your money, go for it. Ask away.”

Matthew paused self-consciously. “Foggy, may I buy you a latte?”

“I would love one, thank you,” Foggy answered.

Matthew bought Foggy a latte and he bought himself a regular coffee. “I haven’t had coffee since high school.”

“How do you like it?”

He made a face. “I want to like it. I used to like it. Before.”

“Maybe you just have to get used to it again.”

“I suppose.”

They were quiet for a while. “If you want to call me Matt, that’s what my friends used to call me.”

“Thanks, Matt,” Foggy said. And again, Matthew could hear the smile in the words.

 


	5. First Day Of School

On the first day of class, Foggy stayed as close to Matt as possible. Sure, they’d made strides in the right direction the week building up to classes starting, but Foggy could easily recognize when Matt was stressed.

Matt was stressed.

But they were just another two stressed out college students in a crowd of other stressed out college students. Maybe they had different reasons to find the day stressful, but it was comforting to know they weren’t alone.

At the end of the day, they sat at their desks and went through the day’s notes. It was weirdly normal.

The second day passed the same way.

And the third.

They developed a routine. It was good.

*****

Foggy was studying when Matt returned to the dorm room.

Matt went straight to the corner, sat on the floor, and there he stayed. Foggy eyed him. He gave it ten minutes before asking.

“Are you alright?”

Matt drew up his knees. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. I don’t think I’ve actually seen you fine yet, but I’ll let you know when you get there. However, on the scale of the okayness that I have seen you be, I think this rates pretty low.”

“I’m fine,” Matt repeated.

“You don’t look fine. Do you want to talk about it?”

“Do I have to?”

“Nope,” Foggy answered and went back to studying.

Matt made a weird huffing noise and Foggy turned back to look at him.

“Would it make you feel better if I say, I, Foggy Nelson, order you, Matthew, to talk about your apparently craptastic day?”

Matt made a noise at the back of his throat. It sounded suspiciously like a snort. “That’s not better.” 

“Good, because I’m not going to do it,” Foggy narrated a shrug. “Seriously. If you want to be all broody and miserable, have at it. But, if you want to talk, I’ll listen.”

Matt grunted something incoherent and then added quietly, “I don’t belong here.”

“Yes, you do. You are adapting damn fast. You’re Matt, straight ‘A’ high school student with a promising future and entrance letter to Columbia. The Centre didn’t change that.”

Matt pulled off his glasses and held his hands over his eyes. “It wasn’t my acceptance letter or high school grades that got me in here.”

“Even Rosalind wouldn’t have been able to get permission for you to attend otherwise. Did something happen in class?”

“Class is fine. I can hear people talking.”

“You belong here as much as anyone,” Foggy said resolutely. They both knew it wasn’t true, though. There were plenty of restrictions. Matt had to sit in the back row of his classes. He was not permitted to disturb the class by speaking or asking questions. He needed to present his ID bracelet when accessing University student services like the library or cafeteria.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Matt said.

Foggy had known it would be impossible to hide Matt’s ward status. “I’m sorry.” Foggy whispered. He’d known things would be difficult. Matt had known too, as they went over the University Campus rules before classes started, that it wouldn’t be easy. They’d both hoped that just being allowed to go to school would make up for it, but everything was so much more complicated than that.

Without hesitation, he pulled Matt into a loose hug. Matt shuddered and then his arms wrapped around Foggy and held on as the emotions inside overwhelmed him.

Foggy gently moved Matt to the side and Matt leaned back against the wall, breathing deeply but steadily. He stayed beside Matt, close enough that they were pressed against each other. Matt leaned into him.

“How do you feel?” Foggy asked.

Matt took a while to answer. “I don’t know. Confused?”

“Anything else?”

“Are you a psychologist now?”

“And now sarcasm! You’re a wonder. I am a damn fine psychologist, if I do say so myself.”

Matt laughed. “Foggy Nelson. Student, rebel lease-supervisor, damn fine psychologist. Sounds legit.”

“And pillow,” Foggy added.

“Mnn. Sorry.”

“Did I say I mind? For the record, I don’t mind. You didn’t answer my question, though.”

“I can’t.”

“All the more reason that you really should. You did just call me a rebel leaseholder. Go ahead and amaze me with all the things you can’t say.”

“I feel angry,” Matt said hesitantly.

“Okay. Angry at what?”

“I’m just... angry. About everything, I guess.”

“Anything more specific?”

Matt held up his arm and shook his wrist with the ID bracelet on it. “This.”

“From how I remember you told it, they deliberately set you up to become a state-ward and then took away your ability to fight them. Angry is totally fucking valid. You can take my word on that, because I’m not only a rebel lease-supervisor, but a damn fine psychologist, remember?”

“And friend,” Matt said tentatively.

“Yes.” Foggy answered. “I’m your friend.”

“I’m also your ward.”

Foggy took Matt’s hand and held it up, he hooked their pinkies. “Do you know what a pinky promise is.”

“I remember what a pinky promise is,” Matt said wryly.

“Good, then you know it is way more powerful than a regular promise. Legally, I can’t change what they did to you, but I’m never going to treat you like that. We were friends first, remember? And that’s how it’s going to stay.”

Matt took a breath, trying to compose himself. “I’m afraid,” he admitted. “The way things are now, it’s good. I afraid to trust it.”

“Then don’t. Let me prove it to you instead.”

*****

Word spread quickly about Matt’s status. He stayed out of the way and kept to himself as much as possible. He entered the classroom last and left the class last to avoid confrontations.

The other students continued to talk about him.

_“Must be nice, getting an education for free.”_

_“I wonder how much his owner paid to get him in here.”_

_“Why isn’t he wearing a collar? There should be rules about that kind of thing.”_

He wasn’t the only ward at the university, though he was the only one attending as a student. The other wards were generally sublet into other jobs around the university to earn their leaseholders extra money. He could feel them watching him as he passed.

It was after Spanish class that he felt someone was following him. It had happened three times already. She walked about ten feet behind, and he’d tried taking different routes to see if she would follow, just to prove to himself it wasn’t a coincidence. No matter what random direction he chose, she followed for about five minutes before going her own way.

He knew people were curious. About his blindness. About being a ward.

He knew people tended to take advantage. Of his blindness. Of his status as a ward.

Then she fell into step beside him. “Hello.” She had a Greek accent.

“Hi,” he said back, unsure what else to do.

“Will you be in trouble if we talk?” she asked.

“We can talk.” He stopped walking and stepped off the sidewalk to let other students pass.

“Can I buy you a coffee?”

He had some time before his next class. “Sure.”

He insisted on buying his own coffee, because he could.

“Are you sure you won’t get into trouble?”

Matt nodded. “I’m sure.” He felt the glares of other students on him as they sat at a table.

_That’s the ward they’re letting attend class._

_What’s he doing here?_

He wasn’t certain it was such a good idea anymore. There were too many social taboos concerning interactions between wards and citizens. She could report him for misconduct to University student services. He knew there had already been complaints.

Matt had heard the conversation even though Foggy had taken the calls far enough away that he shouldn’t have been able to hear any of it. The complaints always came down to one thing: He had too many privileges. They wanted Foggy to bring him under control.

Foggy always countered that Matthew wasn’t _out of control,_ and since they hadn’t broken any actual laws, they couldn’t be responsible for the uncomfortable feelings of others. He’d suggested to Student Services that maybe those filing the complaints should think about seeing a doctor about their unjustified paranoia.

There were no rules against Matt having a coffee with a fellow student. Being at Columbia with Foggy was too important for Matt to risk breaking any rules.

Or was this was a test? Was he being set up to fail?

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Matthew.” This was where, under normal social circumstances, he would ask her what her name was. Nothing about this felt normal.

Social taboos were different from rules, but still very important. He could get in a lot of trouble for behaving improperly. He shouldn’t even speak unless spoken to first. He certainly wasn’t supposed to ask questions.

The back of his neck itched where the electric prongs from the correctional collar used to dig into his skin.

His former leaseholder, his last placement— _they_  tested him often. _They_ watched him for mistakes. _They_ punished him. And _they_...

But he wasn’t with _them_. Foggy was the one taking care of him now. Foggy didn’t do those kinds of things.

“Where are you from, Matthew?”

Her voice sounded nice. She didn’t sound like someone trying to trick or take advantage of him. Her heart was steady and calm. But he knew better than to think that a kind voice held kind intentions.

“I grew up here, in New York,” he answered, being deliberately vague. He drank his coffee in what he hoped were subtle gulps. He didn’t want to waste the coffee, it was still too new a luxury to take for granted, but he didn’t want to stay at the coffee shop.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

“Yes. I’m fine. Thank you.”

“Who is your leaseholder?”

“Franklin Nelson,” he answered. He finished his coffee. “Thank you.” He didn’t know what he was thanking her for. “I should go. Class,” he said awkwardly, knowing that she could easily find his schedule and prove he was lying.

*****

Matt felt sick. Foggy brought supper to the room—just a couple of portions of spaghetti from the cafeteria he’d sweet talked the cook into packing up in Styrofoam take-out boxes. Matt barely touched it. He couldn’t relax. He couldn’t stop thinking about things he didn’t want to think about.

Everything felt too loud.

_The box of correctional devices covered in dust under Foggy’s bed._

_The weight of the collar around his neck when Foggy prepared him for curfew._

_The whispered voices that he knew weren’t real, but were no less loud and distressing within his own head._

_The things they had done to him._

He tried to focus on the book in his lap. Not a textbook tonight. This was something he asked Foggy to pick out. Something fun to read and let his imagination escape into, but he couldn’t focus on the words under his fingers. He rested his hand on the tactile cells, feeling out individual words, savoring the feel of the Braille under his fingers. This book was his (until he returned it to the library), and no one was going to take it away from him on a whim.

_They used to…_

He listened to Foggy typing. He talked under his breath a little as his fingers flew over the keyboard. “As if. Pfft, right. No way.” He abruptly laughed out loud.

“Foggy?” Matt asked.

“Yeah?” The typing paused.

_They used to…_

_He could smell the scent of ancient vegetables and the shelves that had once lined the walls of the old cold room in the cellar. Everything around him was cement, even above, and only the door was made of wood. It was thick and sturdy. Inside was cold, damp and silent. So silent._

_Alone. Thirsty. Cold. He was used to the dark, but he wasn’t used to the silence. He couldn’t get used to the silence._

_He always did things wrong. The skin on his neck burned from the constant shock impulses. There was never enough time for the wounds to heal._

_But it was better than being locked in the silence._

_Alone. Thirsty. Cold._

_Where he was afraid they wouldn’t come back._

_Where he was afraid they would come back._

“Can I sit by you?” Matt asked. He felt stupid. Why? Why did he ask that? It was stupid. He didn’t need to sit next to Foggy to know Foggy was right across the room from him. He could hear people everywhere. There was so much—so much to listen to. To feel.

He heard Foggy shift. “Yeah sure.”

He patted the mattress beside him, and Matt placed his book down and went over. He sat close enough that their hips were touching. “I’m chatting with my sister. Want me to say hi for you?”

“Sure.”

He tapped out something. It sounded much longer than just, hi. Foggy chuckled and leaned into Matt for a second. “She says hi back. She wants to know how you manage to get any sleep over my snoring. As if. I don’t snore.”

“Just a bit. Like a… like a white noise machine.”

“Rude. You’re supposed to be on my side.” Foggy tapped away again. “She sends her condolences.”

“Does she know? That I’m not really your roommate?”

“Yeah. They know about everything. They helped me look for you after you were sent away from the hospital. You’ll get to meet them at Christmas break.”

“Is Rosalind going to be there?” Matt asked.

“Rosalind? No. We’re spending time with my family at Christmas. Rosalind’s my birth-mother. Not the same thing.” Foggy paused. “Candace wants to video chat. Interested?”

Matt got up and grabbed the sunglasses first. Foggy’s sunglasses. They still hadn’t gotten around to getting Matt his own, and Foggy hadn’t asked for them back yet. He came back and sat down. “This okay?”

“Perfect. Okay.” He heard Foggy click some more. It sounded like an old phone ringing.

“Hey, Candace! What did you do to your hair?!” He lowered his voice slightly and leaned into Matt. “She’s got purple hair. I can’t believe mom let her do that.”

Candace laughed. “They’ve relaxed since you’ve moved out. So, that’s Matthew?”

Foggy angled his laptop slightly towards Matt. “That’s him.”

“She can see us?” Matt asked.

“Yeah. Just wave,” Foggy suggested.

Matt waved. There were voices in the background. An adult man and woman, and even farther back he could hear a television program with a laugh track. He tried to pick up more, but it was difficult to discern too many things over the tinny laptop speakers.

“Mom and Dad are coming to say hi. Hold on,” Candace said.

Matt shifted to move aside but Foggy wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “No, stay. They’ll want to say hi to you, too.”

There was more shuffling to be heard over the speakers. “Hey Foggy,” two voices said at once. “How are you doing?”

“Great. This is Matt.” He aimed the laptop again.

“Hi Matt,” a woman’s voice said.

“Hello, Mrs. Nelson.”

“You can call me Anna,” she corrected. “How’s Foggy doing?”

Matt wasn’t sure why she was asking him. “Good.”

“We’re glad he has you to watch out for him.”

Foggy grunted beside him. “I’m fine. Really.”

He then started in on telling them a story about a professor who tended to dress up in costumes. It was a class that they had together and Foggy sat at the back with Matt, always supplying a steady whispered stream of the strange happenings up front. He recognized the stories Foggy told even though they were slightly embellished from what he remembered. Matt joined in on the story occasionally, correcting some of the details Foggy got wrong. They talked for nearly twenty minutes before there was another noise in the background—a door bell? Foggy’s parents said goodbye.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” Candace asked again once their parents were gone.

“Yes. That’s what I have Matt here for, remember? Everything is good.”

“Matt?” Candace asked. “You’ll take care of him, right?”

“Yes,” Matt answered.

“Bye Candace,” Foggy said. “Talk to you later.” He clicked the mouse. The speaker sounds from the video conversation disappeared and Foggy closed his laptop. “Okay, so it seemed like a good idea at the time.” He laughed nervously.

Matt ran a finger along the smooth surface of the computer. “Why do they think you need to be taken care of?”

Foggy sighed. Matt heard his heart speed up slightly. “They were worried about me being away from home.”

“Are you still sick?” Matt asked.

“No. I’m fine.”

“How do they want me to take care of you?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll let you know if I need any help. Otherwise, it’s just nice not to be alone, you know?”

Matt leaned in closer. “I know.”

 


	6. Passive

“You can’t eat here.” A young woman. Matt could hear the metallic friction of the small chain links of her Centre ID bracelet on her wrist. She spoke quietly and there was fear in her voice.

“Is something wrong?” he asked. He couldn’t think of anything he’d done wrong. He showed his ID tag at the counter before receiving food. The cashier charged it to Foggy’s account. He had found an empty table, he wasn’t bothering anyone.

“My supervisor told me to tell you to leave. There aren’t enough tables.”

The cafeteria was only half full, but he knew better than to argue. He was allowed to eat alone in the cafeteria, but he knew he should have waited for Foggy. This kind of thing didn’t happen when he was with Foggy. But Foggy was busy finishing an essay and had insisted Matt go ahead.

Matt stood up and picked up his tray. “Where should I eat?”

“I was told to tell you to leave.”

“Can I have a take-out box for my meal?” he asked. He’d barely started.

She took his tray. He followed her up to the kitchen entrance and waited by the door.

Matt listened. He heard her place the tray on a counter and reach for the Styrofoam containers.

_“What the hell are you doing?”_

_“I’m boxing the ward’s food, so he can leave.”_

_“We don’t do take-out,”_ the supervisor ordered _._

That wasn’t true at all; how many times did Foggy bring food back from the cafeteria for them to share? He heard the scrape of cutlery against a plate, he heard the food fall into the waste basket.

She came back out, her heart was racing. “We don’t allow take-out,” she said and then disappeared back into the kitchen.

Matt went back to his room. He could hear the YouTube music video Foggy was watching from down the hall. It stopped suddenly as Matt opened the door and Foggy clicked the laptop and went back to furiously typing out his essay.

“What do they have for supper today?”

“Meatloaf, carrots, and mashed potatoes,” Matt answered.

“Any good?”

“I wasn’t very hungry.”

*****

The footsteps were heavy, coming fast. A group of people were laughing and running. Matt carefully stepped off the sidewalk to let them pass, but they slowed and stopped beside him.

“It’s that blind kid. The ward,” one of them whispered. More laughing.

“What’s your name?” one of them asked.

“Matthew.”

Four young men. New York accents, but clipped and soft at the same time, which Matt associated with the speech patterns of the wealthy. There was one who stepped forward, who instigated everything that happened next. He wore Axe body spray and it made Matt’s nose itch. The scent overpowered anything he could have sensed from the others behind him.

“My father has wards at his office. They do the cleaning,” Axe said. The other three laughed. “This one probably can’t even do that. What the fuck would anyone want a blind ward for? Matthew, what kind of work do you do?”

“I study. I help study.” He fumbled over the words, feeling stupid and exposed.

“We’ve got a couple at our house. Not blind ones, of course.” Another one laughed. “Why the hell would anyone want to send one to college?” There was a pause.

Axe stepped closer. “What are you being trained for?” He grabbed his arm and pushed up his sleeve, reading his ID number.

Matthew said nothing.

“That Foggy kid is your owner, right?” Axe asked.

 _Foggy was not his owner. Foggy supervised his lease._ Most people didn’t care to make a distinction. Matt was in no position to correct them. “Yes.”

“I guess he figured it’d be easier to bring you along to school than finding a date.” They all laughed. “Does he keep you on your knees a lot, Matthew? I guess you don’t need eyes to be useful, after all.”

“How much does he rent you out for, Matthew?” Another voice called out.

Matt kept his head down. If he was quiet, maybe they would get bored and walk away.

“Speak when you’re spoken to,” one of them commanded. There was a moment’s pause. “Get on your knees.”

They were right out in the open. They wouldn’t… Matt stayed where he was. They wouldn’t… but they could. Couldn’t they? No one would stop them.

Axe walked around his back, and kicked behind his knees. Matt didn’t resist. He fell forward onto his knees. “Not even a fucking collar.” Hands gripped the back of his neck and he was pushed forward onto his stomach. Another weight pressed against his low back, hard and unyielding—a knee.

“You don’t want to talk to us? We’ll send your owner a message.”

The weight on his back disappeared and the guy moved to crouch by his head. He moved to get up, but hands pushed him down again. This time the weight came down on his upper back between his shoulder blades. It was hard to breathe. Hands pulled up his shirt exposing his lower back. Matt tried to stay still. He knew from experience that struggling only made these kinds of things worse. Hands grasped his arms and legs anyway, holding him down despite the lack of resistance.

“Pass me a marker.”

Matt heard someone rummage through a backpack. A plastic cap was pulled off and an acrid smell filled the air, even stronger than the Axe body spray. He felt the cool damp felt tip touch the skin on his back. He couldn’t make out the words.

When he was done the knee lifted and he was flipped over onto his back. Hands continued holding him down while he forced himself to remain passive. Nothing lasts forever. He could ride it out. How long would it take? They wouldn’t risk permanently damaging someone else’s ward. There were rules against that. The same kind of rules that applied to damaging someone else’s property.

There was plenty that could be done that didn’t risk permanent damage. But they couldn’t detain him. They couldn’t keep him from returning to Foggy.

No matter what happened, tonight he would be sleeping in clean warm bed. In his own bed.

Someone removed his glasses. They’d slipped off half way anyhow. Foggy’s sunglasses.

Matt could hear people slowing down as they walked by. Some of the people stopped. There was a crowd. He couldn’t count the separate heartbeats anymore. He heard the electric click of cell phones.

Axe sat on his hips. Someone else held Matt’s legs to keep him from kicking. Hands grasped his wrists, pushing down into the dirt. He wasn’t struggling. They didn’t need to hold him down. He wasn’t fighting.

He heard… Axe was swishing saliva in his mouth. He could smell cola and the mustard and roast beef sandwich he’d had for lunch. He felt breath on his face and turned his head to the side as far as he could.

“Open up your mouth.”

Hands gripped his hair, twisting and pulling and forcing his head back up. But Matt refused to open his mouth. Matt clenched his teeth as hard as possible. And then someone pinched his nose. He bucked against the hands pinning him down as panic set in from the lack of oxygen. He had to breathe.

Axe spat into his mouth as he gasped for breath. Matt choked and tried to spit it out, he felt himself gagging. He couldn’t… he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t… He swallowed and gasped for breath again.

The crowd around them made disgusted noises. Some of them laughed.

Matt coughed.

“Are you thirsty? You want more?” the guy laughed. They plugged his nose again. Something was shoved in his mouth, between his teeth. On some level he recognized the texture. Plastic. The marker? The guy spat again, this time it landed on Matt’s lips. He spat the marker out of his mouth and turned his head just as his stomach clenched and he threw up to the side.

“So fucking gross,” Axe laughed.

The hands holding him down let go, he felt the guy on top of him recoil in disgust. Finally free, Matt rolled onto his side and spat and wiped his mouth and face with his shirt. The crowd started to disperse. Footsteps walking away.

Matt pushed himself up to his knees. He wanted Foggy’s glasses back. He knew they’d been tossed somewhere to the right and skimmed his hand over the grass looking for them, but stopped when he heard someone step closer. He waited, but the person only crouched down in front of him. He stayed still. What now? He flinched when they took his arm and raised it with his palm turned upwards.

He braced himself. Expecting pain or further humiliation.

But it was just Foggy’s sunglasses. The hinge was bent on one side. He tried to straighten it out, and they were still crooked but good enough. He put them on.

“Are you alright?” the man asked.

It wasn’t a voice Matt recognized. An older man. The faint smell of cigarettes on his jacket. Mint gum on his breath.

“Who is your owner?”

Matt braced himself for a moment and then pushed himself up to his feet. “Franklin Nelson.” He answered. He was obligated to give that information when asked.

“What is his phone number?”

He didn’t want Foggy to see him like this.

“What is your owner’s phone number?” the man repeated. “Are you going to be late for anything? Are you afraid that he’ll be mad at you? I could explain to him what happened.”

“Please, don’t call,” Matt answered.

Foggy wouldn’t be mad; Foggy would be worried. Foggy already knew how broken and pathetic he was. That wasn’t how he wanted Foggy to see him. He just wanted to be left alone, he wanted to go home to their dorm room and get clean. Foggy didn’t have to know anything was wrong at all.

He stood up, found his backpack. Smoothed out his clothes. “I’ll be fine. Thank you.” He took a deep breath and started walking.

*****

Stick.

_You just lay there and took it. What kind of warrior are you?_

Dad.

_I’m glad I’m not around to see what you’ve become._

Them.

_Filthy, disgusting, weak, nothing._

Matt covered his ears with his hands, but of course that didn’t help. He wasn’t hearing real sounds. He knew that much. These voices that berated and abused him with his deepest fears and insecurities lived within his own mind. He couldn’t even control is own thoughts. _Pathetic_.

Foggy.

_I never wanted this._

_Filthy, disgusting, weak, nothing._

He would give anything not to hear Foggy say those things out loud.

A shower. At least he would be clean. It might help.

It didn’t.

*****

He was in the process of changing when Foggy burst into the room. He was about to pull on the shirt.

Foggy saw him and his heart pounded. “Turn around.”

Matt couldn’t process. He didn’t move.

“Someone called me. They sent a fucking video of what they did to you. Turn around and let me see your back.”

Matt turned.

“What the fuck.” Foggy whispered. He felt Foggy come closer but not too close. Matt didn’t blame him. It was disgusting. He was disgusting.

“It’s not a big deal. I’m fine.” He reached for his shirt to pull on, to hide the bruises that he knew were forming on his back and on his wrists. They were just bruises. He could barely feel them.

Foggy grabbed the shirt tossed it out of reach. “Just sit down and stay still.”

Matt sat down. It wasn’t a big deal. He still had Foggy, he still had a clean bed to sleep in. He was lucky.

_Open your mouth, are you thirsty, you want more, so fucking gross._

Foggy stomped off to the bathroom. Matt heard the tap running, he smelled soap. When Foggy returned he was holding a damp facecloth. “Lie on your stomach.”

Matt lay down. The cloth that touched him was comfortably warm and only slightly damp. Foggy scrubbed his lower back

“What does it say?” Matt asked.

“Nothing. It doesn’t even make sense,” Foggy lied. His voice sounded angry. His movements felt angry as he scrubbed harder, trying to clean the permanent marker from the skin, and Matt grit his teeth against the abrasive feel of the cloth.

“I’m sorry,” Matt said.

Foggy stopped, and he tossed the cloth towards the bathroom. “Don’t apologize. This wasn’t your fault.” He leaned a bit closer and then placed one hand gently on Matt’s back. “Do you know who they are? The guys who did this to you?”

“I don’t know who they are.”

“I’m not going to let them get away with it. This kind of shit isn’t okay to do to anyone.”

“I’m not anyone, I’m a ward,” Matt said simply. “They can do whatever they want.”

*****

“There’s something I need to tell you,” Matt said late into the night.

Foggy rolled over and grunted, “Mwermb.”

“Foggy,” Matt said a little louder. “Foggy.”

Foggy sat up. “What’s wrong?” There was a click as a light was turned on. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Foggy. I have to tell you something.”

“It can’t wait for morning?”

“I want to tell you now. Foggy, I’m blind.”

Foggy let himself fall backwards and groaned. “Wow Matt, I had no idea. Hey,” he said more gently. “Are sick? You aren’t making any sense.”

“I am blind, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t other ways to see,” Matt continued.

That made Foggy sit up again. “Other ways to see, how?”

“My other senses make up for what I lost with my vision. You know I have good hearing. It’s more than that. I can sense where things are, how they move. It makes a map in my head. Smell touch and taste. These things form a picture.”

“Matt, go back to sleep, buddy. You’re just having a weird dream.”

“It’s not a dream,” Matt answered. He heard Foggy move around in bed. A rolled up sock was hurled through the space between their beds, aimed straight at Matt’s head. Matt caught it effortlessly, and threw it back. It hit Foggy square on the forehead and bounced onto his lap.

“Oh.”

“I could hear the wind displacement in the air as it got closer. It got louder, I could hear you reaching for something because of the way your clothes rub together against the sheets. You’re sitting up and staring at me. I can tell what direction you’re looking in because of the way your hair moves. I know the light is on because I can hear the electricity in the light bulb.”

Foggy tossed the sock back at Matt and Matt caught it and threw it back again.

“Foggy?”

“Yeah?”

“I just, I need you to know I’m not helpless. I don’t need you to protect me.”

Foggy got up and moved over to Matt’s bed, sitting on the edge. “It’s not because you’re blind that I need to protect you,” he said softly.

 

 


	7. Devil Inside

 

“Who else knows about this?”

Matt tensed. “Only you.”

As soon as the words had been out of his mouth, he knew he’d made a terrible mistake. But he hadn’t been able to sleep all night with Foggy’s words going through his mind.

_I’m not going to let them get away with it._

How was Foggy going to not let them get away with it? Matt wasn’t hurt. He wasn’t. He felt ashamed by what they had done to him, but he’d been used worse by people under the pretext of ‘just having some fun’. This wasn’t any different.

The possibility of Foggy doing something and getting hurt on his behalf was unacceptable. He needed Foggy to know that he was capable of taking care of himself, he needed Foggy to understand that he could do so much more than what everyone gave him credit for.

He couldn’t let Foggy think he was worthless. He still didn’t know what Foggy wanted from him, despite what Foggy had already said about friendship and promises.

He felt Foggy lie down next to him and he scooched over to make room.

“Why did you tell me?” Foggy asked.

 _What would anyone want a blind ward for?_ How many times did he have to prove that he could do simple tasks like folding laundry and stuffing envelopes? How many times did he have to prove he could be useful and productive? Even then, no one had wanted to keep him for long.

So far, Foggy had shown no interest in profiting off making Matt work, but how long would that last?

“I can be useful,” Matt said.

He heard Foggy’s heart speed up. Anticipation? Foggy was so much better than anyone else Matt had ever been placed with. He could make himself useful for Foggy, no matter what Foggy wanted. He needed Foggy to know that he could be valuable.

“What else can you hear?” Foggy asked.

Matt listened for a moment. “Greg, the neighbor to our right, fell asleep listening to the radio on his headphones, I can hear him snoring. The radio host is taking requests, a girl just called in and asked for a song dedicated to her boyfriend. Mostly everyone is sleeping. Someone else is talking on the phone. Talking to an older woman with a British accent. There’s a cat outside, pulling garbage out of a torn bag. Traffic. Sirens.”

“You can hear all that?”

“Yes. Not always, though. I had to learn how to block most of it out, so I don’t get overwhelmed. I have to focus to let it in. But, there are some things that are more difficult to block out than others.”

Foggy was quiet for a while and then he said, “I have questions.”

Matt felt his heart sink. “What questions?”

“What is your favorite thing that you can hear that no one else can?”

“Snow falling on a quiet day. It sounds like thousands of tiny bells.”

“What is your favorite smell?”

“My dad’s coat. The orphanage let me keep a trunk of things that belonged to him, that was in there. Whenever I opened that trunk, it was like he was there right beside me again.”

“What happened to the trunk?”

“I asked Sister Catherine to hold onto it when I left St. Agnes, I meant to pick it up later, but... And then… I don’t know. It’s probably been thrown out by now.”

“What’s your favorite taste?” Foggy asked.

“I think I used to like cinnamon.”

“What else did you use to like?”

“On weekends, I would walk over to Central Park and spend the day just listening to people. There was a guy who played saxophone in a tunnel. I don’t remember where. I liked that. There was always something going on.”

“We should do that. Go to the park and hang out. Maybe that guy is still there.”

“Maybe.” Matt reached over and placed his hand lightly on top of Foggy’s. “Can I ask you some questions?”

“Sure, go ahead,” Foggy allowed.

“What’s your favorite movie?”

Foggy considered. “I like lots of movies. I think I’ve watched the original _Star Wars_ movies about a hundred times.”

“I remember _Star Wars_.”

“You saw them? Before losing your sight?”

“I watched them with my dad.” Matt shifted slightly but didn’t move his hand. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Green. Yours?”

“Red. Season? Visually, what season is your favorite?”

“Summer,” Foggy answered without hesitation. They went quiet for a while. Matt wondered if Foggy had fallen asleep, but then Foggy rolled onto his side, facing him.

“Matt?”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t tell anyone else about what you can do, okay?” Foggy’s voice was very quiet, but Matt could hear the subtle warning in his tone. He knew Foggy was serious. Did that mean Foggy was planning on ways to make use of his abilities?

“You’re the only one,” Matt promised.

*****

Matt was outside walking to class. He tapped his cane along the sidewalk in a quick side to side rhythm.

Traffic, dogs barking, students talking and laughing, shoes against pavement, and the wind rustling the leaves in the trees. All these sounds merged into a familiar landscape, but there was something out of place.

Water sloshing, grunts, a choked sob.

Matt stopped and listened more carefully. The sounds were faint, but not far away. The person making the noise was trying to be quiet. He took a few more steps and stopped again. There was another sound below the rest. The metallic clink of bracelet links. Specifically, a ward ID bracelet. He turned and walked towards the sound.

A young woman. She was coming out of the back entrance to the cafeteria hall; she took a few steps and stopped. She put down the large water filled object—a five gallon water cooler bottle, and crouched down for a moment. Her breath came quick and panicked.

No one else was around.

He walked closer, tapping his cane along the way so that she would know he was there. “Are you okay?”

She jumped anyway, then turned and looked towards him. “Fine.”

He recognized her voice as the young server at the cafeteria. Her heart beat light and fast, he couldn’t discern her age, but she seemed younger than most of the students. She had a small build, just over five feet tall and skinny like most wards. She probably didn’t weigh much more than a hundred pounds, if that.

And she was trying to carry five gallons of water. Five gallons of water weigh nearly forty pounds.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

He sensed her looking around, also confirming that they were alone. “I have to bring this to Professor Grant’s office.” She paused for a moment apparently remembering that the person she was talking to was blind and couldn’t see what the ‘this’ she referred to was. “It’s a water jug. It’s heavy.”

“Where is Professor Grant’s office?”

“Past the library.”

“Do you want some help?”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“I’ll be okay.” Matt smiled. He should be on his way to class.

She sighed. Shoulders slumped.

Matt shrugged off his backpack and passed it over to her. “We can trade.”

She tested the weight of the backpack before shrugging it onto her shoulders. Then he passed her his cane and bent over to find the water jug. He spent a moment exploring its dimensions, then lifted. He wasn’t sure how she managed to carry it as far as she did.

“Can you show me where to go?”

She stepped forward ahead of him, and he cleared his throat gently. “You’ll have to guide me. Put your hand on my arm.” He felt her tentative touch on his biceps and moved forward with her. They took the back lane paths around the buildings, making the route a little further, but there were fewer people to cross paths with.

“My name’s Lynn,” she said.

“Matthew.”

“Are you going to get in trouble for helping me?”

“I have some time.”

“What if your supervisor finds out?”

“He’ll understand,” Matt assured her.

They walked quietly for a bit. “You’re the blind ward they’re letting attend classes.” It wasn’t a question. “Your supervisor seems nice, when I’ve seen him in the cafeteria. How long has he had you for?”

“Since a couple weeks before classes started. About a month and a half.”

“Oh. So, you’re new. Does he have any others?”

“I’m his first.”

“He’s polite. The others say he’s nice to them, too.”

“What others?”

“Other wards. Around campus.”

“You talk to them?”

“At night. In the common sleeping quarters.

“I didn’t know there was a shelter for wards here,” Matt admitted. 

“That’s where most of us sleep. Is he good to you, even when there aren’t other people around?”

“Why do you want to know so much about my supervisor?” Matt asked. He felt uncomfortable answering questions about Foggy. Even though he knew they weren’t technically breaking any rules, he still felt like if anyone knew how Foggy actually treated him, they wouldn’t approve. That they would try and make Foggy treat him more like how wards are supposed to be treated.

“He’s Rosalind Sharpe’s son, isn’t he?”

Matt stopped walking. “How do you know that?”

“Word gets around. Rosalind Sharpe is your leaseholder? Her son is your supervisor?”

“Yes. Fog— Franklin Nelson is my supervisor,” Matt confirmed. “What do you know about Ms. Sharpe?”

“Lawrence, the ward who works the grounds, is familiar with her. He worked maintenance in her law offices when she was his leaseholder.”

Lynn tugged at his arm and he started walking forwards again. “What was she like?”

“He was glad when he his lease was finished, and he got returned to the Centre,” she said cryptically. No one preferred the Centre, unless their placement was comparatively unbearable.

“What did she do to him?”

“Maybe her son is different. Maybe you don’t have to worry.” Lynn pulled his arm to the left and he turned with her down another walkway. “You should know there is an advocacy association on campus for wards. I’ve never been there, but I’ve heard about it.”

“Why would I need an advocate?”

“It’s run by the abolitionist society. They can help you file the papers to petition for your lease to be investigated and have you returned to the Centre if things get too bad.”

“I won’t need that,” Matt answered. “Foggy is good. Even when there’s no one else around, he’s good.”

“Foggy?” She laughed but it sounded bitter. “So, you like him?”

“He’s a good person,” Matt defended.

“How long have you been a state-ward, Matthew?”

“Five years. I’m not— I’m not new at this. I know the things that happen. I know really well what happens. This is different. He’s different.”

“Don’t be a fool. You belong to a woman with more money and power than she knows what to do with. Do you really think anyone would seriously want to go through the trouble of educating a disabled ward? You’re a novelty. A new toy. When it changes, at least you’ll know there’s help available. Ask one of us if you need more information, okay?”

She slowed down and let go of his arm to open a door. She guided him inside and held onto his arm again as she led him to the stairwell, up the stairs, and down the hall.

She shrugged off his backpack and leaned his cane against the wall to take back the jug of water, grunting against its weight. “Wait here for me,” she told him. She knocked on the door around the corner, waited for the person to answer, and took the water inside. When she came back, Matt already had his backpack on and his cane in hand.

“You’re wrong,” he said quietly, but even he could hear the doubt in his voice.

“Maybe.” She walked past him and down the stairs. He followed her outside where she stopped and turned back to him. “Thank you for your help. Do you know where you are? Do you need me to lead you somewhere?”

“I’ll be fine,” he assured her.

She nodded. Her heart was racing. She turned and left without another word.

Matt missed class. No one noticed. No one cared. He didn’t tell Foggy.

*****

When Matt ate at the cafeteria alone, he regularly sat at the table at the far end of the room. He avoided the place completely if the supervisor was there.

Lynn was polite but cool when she scooped his food on his plate. The only outward sign that they’d ever interacted outside of the cafeteria was a quiet, “Is it good?” as he passed by, to which he always answered, “It’s good.”

He still wasn’t sure what to think about having other wards worried about him. He wondered if that was what had happened at his last placement, where things really had been bad, if it had been another ward who instigated the investigation into his welfare.

He recognized the voices before he smelled the scent of the Axe body spray. He considered his options.

He could dump his food and leave.

He could do nothing and hope they had other things to do than continue to harass him.

He could confront them.

None of those options sounded like anything that would end well.

Axe and his friends stopped at the counter. Lynn’s supervisor was away and she was alone. He heard Axe laugh. He listened closer, focusing. Though he was out of sight, he could sense the movements of everyone involved. He could identify their heartbeats and who they belonged to. They collected their food and Lynn rang their purchases through the cash register. Axe reached over and grabbed her wrist, pulling her closer.

_I won’t pay until I get a kiss._

_I’m not allowed._

Matt found himself gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles were white. He couldn’t do anything. It wouldn’t take much for the University to expel him. As a ward confronting a free citizen he would be risking detainment or correctional training. But there were other people around. He could hear them. They were watching, listening. Whispering.

_How about we go into the kitchen. No one will know. Can you be quiet?_

_Please leave me alone._

Her heart rate spiked again as Axe groped her chest.

And no one did anything.

He _couldn’t_ do anything.

_After the cafeteria closes, I’ll meet you outside. It will be fun._

Why wouldn’t anyone do anything?

Axe finally paid, and he and his friends sat down. Matt picked up his backpack and cane and slipped into the kitchen through the side door. Lynn was there, hiding on the other side of the wall where she couldn’t be seen by the customers.

Matt placed a hand on her shoulder and she jumped. “It’s just me. I heard them.” She leaned forward slightly, pressing her forehead against his chest and he wrapped his arm around her back. “Someone just came in.” He said softly. “They’re waiting.”

She sniffed and wiped at her eyes. “Stay here?”

“I will.”

She disappeared around the front for a minute. It was just a regular student, she served them their food and rang them through without incident. Over it all, Matt could still hear Axe talking with his friends about his plans to wait outside later.

Lynn returned after. “Do you have anywhere you need to be?”

Foggy would be expecting him back soon; he knew Foggy might worry about him being late. “I can stay,” he told her.

“Thank you,” Lynn whispered. She went about her work. Cleaning the kitchen, cleaning the tables. She went out to the table where Matt had been sitting and brought what was left of his food back to the kitchen for him to finish.

Matt sat out of sight and listened. He focused on Axe and his friends, hoping to hear something that he could use. He could call Foggy, and he knew Foggy would help, but he didn’t want Foggy anywhere near Axe and his friends. He didn’t want to risk it.

Then he heard it. A background noise that he normally filtered out along with everything else he didn’t want or need to hear. Axe’s stomach rumbled. He heard the insides of his abdomen clench and relax. He heard Axe tell his friends he’d be back in a minute.

Matt jumped up and motioned to Lynn to come closer. “Hide my backpack. Don’t tell anyone I was here.”

“You’re leaving me?”

“I’ll come back later. After. Make sure you’re up front where people can see you. It will be okay.” He passed his stuff to her. There was another door on the other side of the kitchen. He snuck around and exited that way into the hall. No one saw him. There was no one nearby.

He listened at the bathroom door. There was only one person inside. One person in a stall wearing distinctly heavy scented Axe body spray. He slipped in and locked the door from the inside and waited. The toilet flushed.

He could still change his mind and turn back. This could end badly.

He flipped off the light. Matt could hear the intermittent buzz of the emergency exit light. He used a sink as leverage to jump and reach above the door to smash it with his elbow. It stopped buzzing. There were no windows. The room should be completely dark.

“What the fuck? Who turned off the fucking light?” Axe yelled out. The stall door banged open. Axe’s heart rate sped up. Matt moved silently. The darkness was his advantage. He passed Axe so that he was standing on the far side away from the door and tapped his fingers against the metal stall door.

Axe spun toward the noise, reaching out blindly.

Matt swung his leg and took Axe’s feet out from under him. He fell on his hip and elbow, yelling out in surprise and pain.

“What the hell? Who the fuck?”

“Leave the girl alone.” Matt lowered his voice nearly to a growl.

“What girl?”

“The cafeteria ward. You will leave her alone, you will not touch her.”

“What the fuck is it to you?”

“Her and every other ward you have victimized. You will stay away from all of them.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m the one who is going to stop you.”

Matt could smell fear in Axe’s sweat. He was close to tears. “I was just having fun with her. I was joking. I was joking. I wasn’t going to hurt her,” he stammered. Axe’s fear smelt bitter and pungent.

Matt gripped Axe’s shoulder, digging his thumb into the pressure point just under his clavicle. Matt knew the places that hurt, he had good teachers. He leaned forward, pushing his knee into Axe’s upper abdomen, pressing on his diaphragm and cutting off his breath. “I will be watching you. If you go near her or anyone else, I will come for you.”

“Fuck off.”

Matt struck out of anger; without thinking. He punched once, twice, three times into Axe’s face. His knuckles stung from the force of it. Axe’s breathing evened out and he went limp. He was out cold.

Matt jumped up. There was no one in the hall. Not yet. But he couldn’t count on it staying that way. He unlocked the door and exited into the hall. He took the closest exit out of the building and ran back towards his dorm, hiding along the way when he sensed anyone nearby.

He was smiling when he burst into his and Foggy’s room. He felt... euphoric, exhilarated, free.

“Matt?”

He was breathing heavily. Foggy got up and came closer. He grabbed Matt’s right hand. “Matt? What happened, why are you bleeding?” He pulled Matt into the bathroom and held his hand under cold water. “Did someone hurt you?”

Matt laughed as the smell of blood washed down the drain. He didn’t even know if was his own or if it belonged to Axe. He listened to Foggy’s heart racing. “I’m fine.”

“Was it the same guys from before?”

“Yes.”

“What did they do? Are you okay?”

“Foggy.” Matt paused as Foggy wrapped a cold wet towel around his hand. “I punched him.”

“You what?”

He told Foggy everything.

 


	8. Run

Foggy listened to Matt tell his story. He’d never seen Matt so excited before. Happy. So damn ecstatic about beating someone unconscious.

“I feel like I did something that makes a difference,” Matt explained.

He was at least relieved that Matt wasn’t hurt, and God help him, but Foggy’s first response was, “Did anyone see you?”

“Only Lynn. She’s the ward—the girl who works—”

“I know who she is.”

“I gave her my backpack and my cane.”

“You left your stuff there?”

“I told her to hide it, not to let anyone know I was there.”

“You believe her?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know she won’t tell security or the police? Or her supervisor?”

“She won’t,” Matt answered confidently.

“You don’t know anything about her.” Foggy looked out the window, expecting to see police cruisers or Centre control agents pulling up outside. There was nothing.

The things that had already happened to Matt in the past were worse than anything Foggy could imagine. But this... This was something else altogether. If they caught Matt, they would do worse than just send him back to the Centre. They could assign him to one of the chain gangs working on the American-Mexican wall. What if they found out about his special gifts? They’d experiment on him. He’d already been bottom rung lease chattel when Foggy found him, they could decide to execute him.

“There’s no one outside,” Matt said.

“You can tell?”

“Yes. I can tell,” Matt assured him.

“There’s going to be an investigation.” Foggy abandoned his apparently unnecessary sentry duty at the window and paced. “Shit. What if they figure out it was you? I should go, see what’s happening.”

Matt reached out and grabbed Foggy’s arm. Foggy flinched at the sudden movement and Matt recoiled as though struck, stumbling several steps back and bumping into the chair.

Good. Foggy hated himself a little, but good. He shouldn’t be the only one freaking out. “Stay here. Please.” He opened his top drawer where the collar and remote were kept. He saw Matt tense up out of the corner of his eye. He shoved the remote into his pocket and slammed the drawer shut. “If someone comes for you, run.”

He moved over to the window again, unlocking the latch and opened the window. “Do you think you can climb out the window without breaking your leg?”

“I can.”

“If that happens, I’ll try and meet you behind the used bookstore on 7th. Do you remember how to get there?”

“Yes. Foggy, Lynn isn’t going to tell anyone what I did.”

“She’s a ward, Matt. She’s going to do whatever she needs to do,” Foggy countered.

“I’m a ward, too,” Matt answered back as Foggy walked out.

Campus security and city police were parked by the doors of the cafeteria. Foggy walked in slowly. He tried not to stare at the crowd of people in the hall. But then, everyone else was staring, it was probably more suspicious if he didn’t stare.

The guy Matt had referred to as ‘Axe’ was sitting at a table, his face bloody and his eye swollen shut. He looked angry. His name, of course, wasn’t Axe. It was Reid Friesen. Foggy knew who he was, he knew everything there was to know about him. If Matt had waited just one more day… But no. If Matt hadn’t have acted, then Lynn would have been the next to suffer. He knew why Matt did what he did.

That didn’t make the fact that he had done it any less terrifying.

If they found out it was a ward who attacked Reid…

The bathroom was blocked off as a crime scene, but the cafeteria was still open.

Foggy stood in line. Lynn was still the only ‘staff member’ working. She served the woman in front of Foggy and then turned and froze.

Foggy smiled. “Lasagna, please. Two servings for take out.”

She disappeared around the back for a moment and returned with the Styrofoam containers. She carved out two blocks of lasagna. “Anything else?”

“I think I forgot my backpack here earlier. You didn’t see it, did you?”

He eyes flicked over to Reid sitting in the corner with the police. “I wouldn’t know. Anything left behind gets put into the lost and found.”

Right. Because college students are notorious for losing their shit everywhere. It was a large bin just inside the doors. “I’ll check. Thanks.”

“I folded the stick and put it in the bag,” she whispered.

Foggy nodded. She stacked the boxes into a plastic bag and Foggy paid for the meals. Matt’s bag was in the lost and found, buried under a couple of jackets and a fanny pack. He dug out the backpack, slung it over his shoulder and went back to their room.

Matt was still there. No jumping out of windows had been necessary. “You were right.” Foggy threw the backpack at Matt and Matt caught it. He shoved the remote back into the drawer.

He passed Matt the lasagna and sat down.

“Axe looks like he was hit by a truck. It’s a good look on him.”

Matt grinned.

*****

Foggy decided to conduct a test. He watched the YouTube video on his computer with his headphones on. He caught Matt grinning and paused the video. “You can still hear it, can’t you?”

Matt shrugged. “Who am I going to tell?” he asked innocently.

Right. Foggy unplugged the headphones. “There’s a kitten and two lizards. The kitten is a little black and white, short-haired thing not much bigger than the lizards. I have no idea what kind of lizards they are, but they are light green. The kitten taps the tail of one of the lizards and it moves away, but she forgets about the second one and it moves up beside her and she doesn’t notice—” He described the video. “And then the kitten jumps about five feet in the air, bounces off a couch, flips over backwards and runs off. Now you share my shame.”

“Thanks,” Matt answered, and it didn’t sound entirely sarcastic. 

He tried again later with noise dampening foam earbuds and a short fail video. Matt tilted his head slightly to the right and frowned. Foggy wondered if Matt even knew he was doing it and regretted that poker was never going to be a viable game option. Unless... He pulled out his earbuds and asked. “Matt, are there such a thing as Braille playing cards?”

“Yes. Why?”

“No reason. Want to listen to a video of a kid in a batman suit jumping through the roof of a shed?” Matt didn’t answer so he played it for him anyway.

“Why would someone do that?”

Foggy laughed and played a ten minute long fail compilation just so he could narrate and watch Matt’s various expressions.

When he listened to the other videos, he kept the volume on mute.

They were all uploaded to a single account.

_freezenman85_

Matt’s assault wasn’t the first, and it wasn’t the last. The faces of the attackers were either blurred or facing away. The victims were clear.

Foggy recognized at least three of them as wards, and he suspected the rest of them were as well. Lynn was in there on an earlier video. They threw a cup of coffee at her face. From her reaction and the resulting red splotches on her skin it had been hot, but at least not hot enough to cause lasting burns.

The latest upload Foggy recognized as a young gardener who could usually be seen mowing the lawns and emptying garbage receptacles. It was uploaded just that morning.

_Four men surround the ward. One of them kicks the lid off the garbage can beside them. Something is said. The ward reaches in and pulls out a damp paper lunch bag. He opens the bag. A sandwich, half eaten. There were maggots on the meat. The men around him crowd closer. The ward brings a shaking hand up to his mouth, he takes a bite. He takes another bite. He gags and throws up, one of the men comes up behind him and kicks him in the back, pressing his boot against his head and forcing him down, grinding his face into the vomit on the grass._

In a side shot of the attacker’s face Foggy could see bruises around his eye. No one could say Reid hadn’t been warned.

“Are you okay?”

“What?” Foggy jumped. There was no sound for Matt to have heard, he couldn’t know what Foggy was watching.

“Your heart is racing,” Matt answered.

Foggy looked down at his computer as another video buffered and another ward was surrounded and humiliated. “Porn. I’m watching porn,” he blurted.

“Without sound?”

“I’ll turn it up if you want to watch it with me. I can narrate,” he offered.

Matt made a slightly choked noise. “I’ll pass,” he said and quickly turned back to his book.

*****

Foggy sent Reid Friesen an email. _Front steps, library. Today. 6pm_

He got there half an hour early and waited. Reid and his friends showed up ten minutes late.

“Nice face,” Foggy greeted him.

“What do you want?”

“I’ve been following your vids on YouTube,” Foggy said. “You have quite the fanbase of psychopaths, I bet you’re proud.”

Reid laughed. “You like what I did to your ward? You got my message?”

“Clever.” Foggy held up his phone. “Your mother is Serena Brady. Actress, artist, and human rights activist. Am I right? She does a lot of work protesting against the Centre, doesn’t she?”

“How do you know that?”

“Google,” Foggy answered. “She’s the one paying the bills, isn’t she? Looks like her signature.” He pulled up a picture of Reid’s tuition check. “Does she know her son is famous on the internet for humiliating and torturing wards? What do you think the media would think about her son’s hobby?”

There was no answer.

“Have you heard of TMZ?” Foggy added and held up his phone again. “What do you think she’ll say when they ask her about your hobbies?”

Reid was breathing heavily. His fists were clenched. “If you think you can threaten me—”

“How does it feel?” Foggy asked. “You’re going to stop. You’re going to take down your YouTube channel and delete the videos.”

“I don’t have to do anything. I’m going to find your blind, useless ward and—”

“Good luck asshole.” Foggy pressed send. “Enjoy your fame.”

“You didn’t,” Reid yelled.

Foggy stood up. “I did.” He called back and walked away. Reid didn’t follow. Foggy suspected that the asshole confined his harassment towards people who couldn’t defend themselves.

The story was all over Facebook and Twitter within the hour.

*****

“Matt! Matt, wake up!”

Matt flinched involuntarily from the hand on his shoulder, but Foggy didn’t move away.

“Matt. Wake up. You’re having a nightmare.” He shook Matt’s shoulder again and this time Matt sat up.

“What?”

“You were having a bad dream.”

“Did I wake you up?”

“I don’t mind,” Foggy whispered. “You okay?”

“It was…” Matt stopped and then stood up. Foggy watched him stand very still for a moment and then race to the window and place a hand on the glass. “There’s something happening. Foggy, it wasn’t a dream, I can hear it happening.”

He frowned and his entire posture went rigid. “It’s... it’s Lynn. I recognize her voice. She’s crying. Someone is hurting her. He’s—it’s Axe. “ Matt’s breathing was harsh. “Foggy. He’s hurting her.”

Foggy grabbed his shoes and his jacket. “Where are they?”

“Foggy? You can’t—”

“Well you can’t, it’s past curfew. Someone has to do something.”

Matt kept his hand on the window. “Call security.”

“I will. Where are they?” Foggy waited and Matt didn’t respond. “You know what he’ll do to her. Where are they?”

“Behind the hall,” Matt answered.

Foggy grabbed his cell phone and dialed campus security as he ran out the door.

He gave the details to the emergency operator, hung up, and shoved his smartphone in his pocket. He ran. It was only two buildings away. He heard Lynn scream and ran faster.

Matt had been right. It was Reid. And Lynn. He had her shoved up against the wall, trapped in the corner.

“Let her go!”

When Foggy yelled, Reid jerked around to look in the direction of his voice, and it was enough of a distraction for Lynn to twist and squirm away. She found her footing and ran. Reid attempted to chase her, but Foggy got in his way.

Acting as a human speedbump was probably not the best plan, but it was effective.

They both ended up on the ground and Foggy grabbed Reid’s shoulder to keep him there. That ended up with an elbow against Foggy’s neck, and so he rolled again. He had the size advantage, but definitely not the experience when it came to fighting.

“She’s gone. Security is on their way.”

Reid pushed left and forced Foggy onto his back. “Did you attack me in the cafeteria?”

“Not me,” he answered. “How do you like being famous?”

Reid punched him in the side of the head. “I got expelled because of you.”

“You deserved it,” Foggy answered.

Where the hell was security? Reid straddled Foggy’s torso and pinned his wrists above his head.

The weight pressing on him suddenly disappeared. He took a breath. What?

It was a blur. A dark shape rolled and came out on top, was pushed aside and then recovered and retaliated with a well-aimed kick to the head. Reid went down.

“What the hell are you doing?”

His rescuer turned, and Foggy got his first clear view. Matt was wearing a scarf over his neck and face like a mummified toddler, and it looked ridiculous.

“Go home.”

“But you—”

“I’m fine.” Foggy went over to where Reid was face first on the ground. “He’s not getting up.”

“There’s a car coming. Campus security. Come with me.”

How much time did Matt have left before the implant activated? “I will. Are you okay?”

“I can feel it charging.”

“Run. I’ll catch up.”

Matt ran.

Matt actually made it all way back to the dorm. At least outside of it. Foggy found him curled up on the front step. Foggy unwrapped the scarf from Matt’s head and draped it around his own neck. Matt’s breathing was fast and shallow, his eyes squeezed shut.

Foggy put a hand on his shoulder, he could feel him shaking. “I’ll help you get up.”

Matt shifted his arm and even that small movement elicited a low moan of pain.

“I have to get you upstairs.” Foggy whispered. He moved around and hooked his hands under Matt’s arms to pull him upright and winced in sympathy as Matt groaned with the movement.

He paused for a moment to let Matt catch his breath a little. Foggy crouched in front of him, raised Matt’s arm over his neck and shoulder, reached down behind his knees, and pushed up with his legs to lift himself into a standing position.

Matt’s breaths came in short gasps and he cried out as Foggy adjusted, holding Matt in an approximation of a fireman’s carry.

“Shh. I’m sorry. You need to be quiet.”

The stairs had never seemed so steep, especially when with each step, Foggy could hear the soft whimpers of Matt trying not to make any sounds. They finally got to their dorm room and thankfully the door was unlocked. Foggy stumbled as he stepped inside and as gently as possible, which Foggy was afraid wasn’t gentle at all, lowered Matt onto his bed.

That time, Matt wasn’t able to suppress a pained cry.

Foggy dug immediately into his drawer for the remote and made sure that the immobilizer signal wasn’t still transmitting. It wasn’t. Whatever it did to Matt, this was just the after-effect. He entered his security code to cancel the alert. He’d be getting a call from the Centre’s emergency services soon to confirm the false alarm.

“Matt, can you hear me?”

His cell phone rang. It was the Centre. He was asked if he required assistance. “No. It was just an accident. Everything’s fine,” Foggy assured them.

He went back to sitting beside Matt. Matt was lying on his side, still in pain, still shaking. Foggy wiped at the tears collecting around his eyes.

“You’re an idiot. What the hell were you thinking?” Foggy said softly.

He rubbed his hand on Matt’s back. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Eventually the tremors eased and Matt relaxed into a restless sleep. Foggy stayed by his side.

 


	9. The Past: Matthew's First Placement

**The Centre**

Before Matthew met Foggy, he had already attempted to escape four times.

The first was when he left the Centre-care program. He was still free then. He was a prospective college student. He hadn’t thought of it so much as running away as just finding somewhere else to go. He wasn’t sneaking out or trying to cover his tracks or anything like that. He packed his bags and walked out the front door.

Then the security personnel stopped him in the parking lot and demanded to see his day pass.

Matthew had tried to explain that he didn’t need a pass, he wasn’t a resident. He gave them his name. “I’m registered in the temporary housing program.”

They asked him to come back inside to sign some forms. Matthew went with them. He tried to explain. They wouldn’t listen.

“You’re disabled,” they said. “We are morally obligated to ensure the safety of our disabled residents.”

It was ridiculous. He calmly explained that he wasn’t any less able to do things than they were. That he’d been taking care of himself and helping care for the younger kids at St. Agnes for years. He was headed to college. He would not willingly stay in a facility where they wouldn’t even let him use a dull plastic knife to cut his own meat. He could leave whenever he wanted to; he was an adult with rights.

He was willing to sign a release form absolving them of all responsibility. 

No one listened.

So he walked out. He expected them to be pissed off. He didn’t expect them to restrain him physically from leaving. He didn’t go quietly. At least, there was that. He fought. He didn’t fight well, and he knew if Stick was watching, he would laugh and call him pathetic. An alarm was sounded and the shrill noise muddled his senses, more guards ran to intervene.

They filed the incident report, explaining that Matt resisted assistance, and recommended enforced supervision. For Matt’s safety.

They sent him to the Centre. It was his first experience with the system. Sure, wards were working all over the city, but he never thought to notice them. They went about their business, and he went about his.

He was locked in a cell. It felt like a cage. Narrow, cold. A hole in the floor provided the only sanitation, a rubber mat with a thin sheet and an old felt blanket to sleep on. 

He’d just wanted to take care of himself. He didn’t belong here. He didn’t do anything wrong.

It was a large facility. It smelled like waste and body odor. The first night, he was overwhelmed. He sat in the corner of his cell, hands over his ears to try and block out some of the sounds, and became another voice among hundreds, crying and scared.

By morning, the fear turned to anger. They couldn’t do this to him. He had rights. He wasn’t a criminal or an illegal immigrant. He tried to talk to the staff. When they delivered the trays of food for breakfast lunch and dinner, he attempted to tell them there’d been a mistake, he didn’t belong here. He kept track of the days. They would let him out in time for school to start, right? He could look back at it as a bad experience and move on. There had to be laws against this kind of thing.

The day came. No one came to let him out; no one talked to him about anything. One day wasn’t a big deal. He could miss the first day. The second day passed. The third. He couldn’t stay here. He ran his hand along the cell door, feeling for weaknesses. He backed up. And he kicked. He had no shoes. He used the heel of his foot and ignored the pain. He kicked again. And again. He could feel the fatigue in the metal. One more time.

There was a loud cracking sound. The door swung open. He could have cried. He stepped out. He needed to find the way out, that wasn’t a problem. There was a faint breeze of fresh air coming from the door. He could smell it. It was close. He was going to make it. Let them try and get him after he got out. He would call everyone he knew. He would go to the media and expose everything that was going on here and what they tried to do to him.

He was almost at the door when the guards met him. Three men. Matt stopped, he gave himself a moment to focus. He could do this. It had been a while since his training with Stick, but this was his chance and he wasn’t going to back down. They weren’t even that close before he got shot with a taser.

He stumbled, but he didn’t go down. No. He could do this. He was going to get out. They shot him again, and he dodged out of the way, spinning to the right and knocking down the guard edging closer in on his side with a well-aimed kick to the side of the knee.

But when he had dodged, the prongs of the taser found their mark on the guard on the other side of him.

It was a moment Matt would never forget. The man’s heartbeat suddenly raced. It skipped, and he heard it stop.

He stopped fighting. He just wanted out of the Centre. He wanted to go to college. He didn’t want anyone to die.

He knew CPR from taking first aid workshops at St. Agnes. He jumped over the man on the ground and started chest compressions. One of the guards grabbed from behind and pulled him off.

“It’s his heart. He’s dying. Help him!” Matt shouted.

They didn’t listen. They held him down. The man beside him was dying, and the guards were holding him down. He could hear the taser charging above him. A searing pain in his side. Then he passed out.

At least, the guard didn’t die. He’d had a heart attack, but there’d been someone nearby with enough training to act quickly and use an AED defibrillator.

Matthew was lucky; they charged him with aggravated assault and not murder. The public defender assigned to his case met with him for five minutes before appearing before the judge.

The judge concluded that as Matt was already a dependant of the system, the Centre should take responsibility for his wellbeing rather than have him become a burden to society. He was not competent to be released. His status as a citizen was revoked. From then on, he would be a Centre dependant state-ward.

*****

The Centre sent him to conditional training.

They assigned him a number and welded a chained bracelet around his wrist as identification. He was fitted with a correctional collar. They introduced him to training tools, demonstrating how they were used and why he should avoid them. They taught him the consequences of disobedience. They taught him to kneel on command and not to ask questions. He was assessed for appropriate work duties, and because of his disability he was classified as unskilled and unfit for anything more than menial labor.

For his first placement, arrangements were made as part of an ongoing introduction program to lease him out to a hospital equipped with the experience and tools necessary for first-time wards.

His movements were carefully managed and monitored. They taught him to fold linen, collect soiled laundry baskets, and run the washers and dryers.

A week after arriving at the hospital was the third time he tried to escape. He made the attempt the evening after his supervisor pulled him aside and took him into his office for a private disciplinary session. 

He couldn’t do it. This couldn’t be his life.

He made it as far as the parking lot when he discovered there was an alarm linked with his collar that went off as soon as he exited the building. The shock administered by the correctional collar, (shock collar, calling it by a different name didn’t make it any less than what it was), brought him to his knees. They grabbed his arms, pulling him up and dragged him back inside. He was restrained in a kneeling position, his wrists tied behind his back and then tethered to restraints around his ankles.

They left him in the common area where the working wards ate their meals and prepared for their day. They left him there for hours. This was what happened when you disobeyed. And then they returned him to work.

He worked in the laundry room folding linens in the morning, collecting baskets of dirty laundry in the afternoon, and running the machines in the evening.

A training routine was implemented to assist in his transition. Nutritional therapy was prescribed, and he was weighed and assessed to ensure that he received only the necessary calorie intake. Isolation and sensory deprivation programs were enforced to minimize social contact and decrease stress.

On difficult days, the days his supervisor felt that he needed an extra reminder of who was in control, he was administered aversion therapy in accordance with Centre guidelines. There came the point that his supervisor only had to turn on the remote, the metal prongs against his neck would warm up with the potential charge, and he’d drop to his knees and beg.  _Just please stop._

Every moment of his day was dictated and controlled. He tried not to think further ahead than his current task. He was four months into his first placement. He wasn’t fighting it anymore. He was tired. 

His fourth escape attempt came the day he picked up a basket of laundry and an elderly patient asked him his name. He froze. No one called him by his name anymore. His supervisor was the only one who spoke to him at all. His hands started to shake and he felt his eyes sting with tears. He excused himself and finished his work.

Maybe if he ran fast enough.

That night, he snuck out of ward quarters and stood at the service doors and placed his hand on the metal door. He could feel the world outside. He listened to one of the nurses who had just finished her shift unlock her car door. She started the engine, and the music on the radio was a song he used to have on a mix CD.

He followed the sound for as far as he could as she drove away. The parking lot fell silent. The door felt cold against his hand. He didn’t open it. He sat down and hugged his knees. He whispered his name over and over to himself just so that he could hear it out loud.

“Matthew. Matthew.” He recited it like a mantra. He stayed there until his supervisor walked by, kicked him in the ribs, and told him to go back to bed and get some sleep.

That was his fourth escape attempt and he never even made it out of the building.

The next morning, he woke up. He ate his breakfast and went down to the laundry room to fold linens. It was routine. The routine was what he relied on to make it through the day.

But that morning was different.

“Hey,” a voice said from the door. “Mind if I sit here a while? My name’s Foggy. What’s yours?”

“Matthew,” he said.

 

 


	10. The Past: Matthew's Second Placement

**The Uniform Supply Factory**

It had now been a total of eight months that Matthew had spent working at the hospital. He had known Foggy for four of those months.

The only thing that had made life bearable at the hospital had been the mornings when Foggy would come and visit. He knew that the only thing that had kept him from losing himself completely, had been that for one small part of the day, he had felt like a human being again. He felt like he had a name again. A life.

If Foggy hadn’t died, could he have lasted ten years, waiting for him to go through law school, waiting for him to earn enough money to purchase his lease? Would Foggy have even followed through on his promise?

He wished he’d had a chance to find out.

There was no ten years. There was no Foggy. There was no anything.

The Factory was filled with noise and movement, and the constant scent of strong chemical detergents twenty-four hours a day. The wards were relaxed. They worked hard, but they were not afraid to talk to each other. They were not afraid of being caught laughing at a joke.

His new supervisor wasn’t mean. He didn’t take advantage of his power. He called the wards under his supervision by their names, and he insisted on being called by his own first name, Greg. Just for those things, Matthew didn’t hate him. Assignments were rotated on a weekly basis. One week Matthew loaded the washers and dryers, the week after he was at the folding table. He had been there for a month when he was instructed to help unload a truck.

They took him outside. _Outside._

It was his first time being outside since being brought to the Factory. They led him up into the back of the truck and told him all he had to do was find the bags and toss them down. Didn’t matter if he couldn’t see where he was throwing them, so long as it was out the door.

“Won’t the alarm go off if I’m away from the building?”

“What alarm?”

There was no alarm.

The Uniform Supply Factory did not have an alarm system like the hospital did. Matthew kicked himself for not realizing that sooner. There was literally nothing keeping him from leaving the factory.

He ran.

It was ridiculously simple. He listened for the hall to be clear and for the other wards to be sleeping. He got out of bed, and he walked out the door. He couldn’t understand why anyone else stayed.

His freedom lasted one day.

He didn’t know where he was. He had no plan. The warehouse was in an industrial area. He was still wearing the damn collar and bracelet and factory uniform. There was a business district nearby, though.

He kept out of sight as much as he was able, staying to the shadows and back lanes. He found a restaurant and hid by the back door, sneaking in to steal food and water when the chef took a bathroom break. He found a place to sleep beside a dumpster, tucking himself away under large cardboard box. He’d figure the rest out in the morning. It was enough at the moment to be free.

A police officer found him, or someone saw him and called the police. As soon as they saw him, the uniform and collar were dead giveaways. The officer activated a universal remote to stun him through the shock collar and slow him down. It was enough to subdue him, and he was returned to the Centre. He spent two days in the pens, and then was returned to the Factory.

He didn’t know what to expect. The supervisor at the hospital had been brutal after his escape attempt there, and that time had simply been out the back door.

However, he was taken to the common sleeping quarters, told to rest, and returned to work the next day.

*****

He waited a week, then he ran again.

This time, instead of the city, he chose to follow the river. He needed to stay out of sight. There were wooded trails along the river that led to the state park. He followed the path while he was alone and hid down the bank of the river when he heard people coming. It wasn’t a well thought out plan. He didn’t know anything about surviving outside. He spent the first night curled up in a in a hole left by an uprooted tree, covering himself with leaves to keep warm. He woke up freezing and wet.

Thirst and hunger were a problem. At least he knew enough not to try drinking river water, but he’d grown up in Hell’s Kitchen, what did he know about surviving in the woods?

He could smell berries, they smelled good. He plucked one off the branch and tentatively tasted it. It seemed okay. It would taste bitter or wrong if it was poisonous, right? He had no idea.

There’d been a berry bush back at the orphanage, but no one ever ate those. Rumor had it the old man who lived in the apartment block down the street regularly peed on them. Maybe it hadn’t been the old man, but it was _some_ one. Matt knew, he could smell it. However, he was hungry and thirsty, and these berries didn’t smell like pee. He decided to take his chances.

It was a bad decision. The stomach ache started half an hour later. The vomiting shortly after that.

He curled up, sweating and freezing all at once. He was wet and he was cold—shivering. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t survive like this. He didn’t know the first thing about taking care of himself outside.

The air grew colder as the day turned into night. He was tired. Maybe it would get cold enough overnight that he wouldn’t wake up in the morning. It was the most comforting thought he’d had all day.

He did wake up. His stomach was no longer cramping, but it felt sensitive. His head hurt. He was thirsty. He had to move. The Centre would be looking for him. Maybe he could find a cabin with some food and water. Or a parking lot. Sometimes people left food in their cars. He’d figure it out.

Midday felt warm. He found a spot on the river bank to rest, out of sight of the hiking trail. A place where the sunlight warmed the dirt. He lay on his back, and if he could see, he would have been staring up at the sky.

He could feel the position of the sun, could feel when the odd cloud passed overhead, but mostly the sky was clear and the sunshine unbroken. He dozed, feeling content and finally a little hopeful that maybe he could make it this time.

He woke to the sound of footsteps along the path. Someone alone. He could smell the food in their backpack. He heard water sloshing in a bottle. Several bottles. He roused himself enough to follow. He wasn’t sure what he would do. He could steal the bag. At least then he’d have some supplies. Maybe they even had a blanket or some extra clothes.

One thing he had come to realize pretty quickly: He hated the woods. There were too many unfamiliar sounds and smells. It was difficult to walk off the path, his feet kept catching on branches, making him lose his balance. There were undetectable holes under the leaves.

He could hear animals all around him. Squirrels, mice underground, beetles crawling under logs and leaves. Bigger things farther away that ran as he got closer. Bugs. He hated the bugs. Every time a fly flew close to his ear, he instinctively tried to duck away.

His foot got caught under another branch and he fell. Again. The branch cracked as he landed on it.

The footfalls on the path stopped. Matthew froze.

The steps came closer to the edge of the path, closer to the bank. Searching. One more step. Waiting. Listening. Watching.

There was a wet noise, rustling, a scream, the thumping of a body hitting the ground, rolling, something snapping, and finally coming to a stop. Silence. And then another scream.

A woman.

Harsh breathing. He listened to the hiker shifting, struggling to get up. He could hear the grinding of bone as she attempted to stand. Another scream as she fell.

He could take her backpack easily now. He could even take her jacket. She wouldn’t be able to stop him. He needed it more than she did.

She was crying, in pain. He crept closer. She was young, probably close to his own age.

He moved closer, he knew the moment she saw him because her heart just about doubled its speed.

He knew he was a mess, but she had water, food.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. He crept closer, sat down well out of reach. He listened for a moment. “Your ankle is broken. You’re bleeding. Do you—do you have a first aid kit?”

He sensed her nod her head.

“In your backpack?”

She nodded again.

He scooted over to the right and reached for the strap of the bag, pulling it towards him.

There was water in the side pocket. He pulled that out first and popped the cap. Water had never tasted so good. Then he unzipped the backpack and dumped it. There was a grocery bag, socks, a small padded kit. The first aid kit. He opened that. Bandages, Gauze. Tape. Scissors. A rolled up tensor bandage. Little square packs he couldn’t identify.

“There’s a cut on your back.” He scooted closer to her. Still out of reach, but just barely. “I can help.”

She didn’t answer.

He pushed the first aid kit towards her. “Alcohol wipes?”

He heard her take the kit, sort through the packets. “Can’t you read?”

Having her assume he was illiterate was better than her knowing he was blind.

She tossed him a packet and he caught it. He ripped it open and used the alcohol towelette inside to wipe his hands. He got up and moved around behind her. Her clothes were ripped. He pushed the fabric up, exposing her low back. The cut was on the right side, jagged, over her lower ribs. Her ribs were okay, though—bruised but not cracked, not broken.

“Antiseptic wipe?”

She held out her hand. He used the towelette it to wipe around the gash, wiping away some of the blood and dirt. He didn’t touch the open wound, the blood had already cleaned out most of the debris, and she could go to a hospital and get it cleaned properly later. He did need to bandage it, though. He reached around and felt for a large sterile pad and pressed that against the wound. She sucked in a breath but otherwise didn’t complain. He taped it in place.

He moved back around so that he was closer to her ankle. “I can wrap your ankle with the tenser bandage,” he offered. “Might make it easier to get up to the road.”

“Okay.”

He took the bandage and unwound it. “It’s just a fracture. Just above your ankle. Here.” He didn’t touch, but he pointed to the outside of her leg. “I don’t think it’s shifted. You should be okay, but don’t put any weight on it.”

He carefully wrapped the bandage around her ankle joint. He moved away again after he was done, back towards where he dumped her stuff on the ground. He dumped the grocery bag. There wasn’t much inside.

He picked up one of the bars in the crinkly packages and tore the wrapper open. Granola bar. Chocolate chip. He practically inhaled it, and then quickly picked up the other three and tossed them back into the backpack.

He sorted through the rest of the items. A camera. Socks. Notebook. Phone. Wallet. Keys. A couple of extra bottles of water. He put the socks the water back in the pack with the granola bars. He passed her the phone. “Call for help.”

She fidgeted with the phone. “It’s broken.”

He put the camera, notebook, wallet and keys into the grocery bag and passed it to her.

“I’ll help you get to the road, but I’m keeping this.” He shrugged the backpack onto his shoulders and stood up.

She grunted as he pulled her up. He half carried her up the hill. The highway wasn’t too far. The hiking trail followed beside the road just far enough to give the illusion of wilderness. It was faster to cut across than to walk to the next picnic area or turn back. He got her to the road.

He needed to go before anyone else could see him. He needed to find a new place to hide.

“Don’t leave me alone here. Please.”

He hesitated, but he sat down. She was scared, he knew how that felt.

“Thank you for helping me,” she said. “How long have you been on the run for?”

He moved to get up but she grabbed his hand instead. He let her pull him back down. “Three days.”

“Are you sick?”

“I’m okay.”

“You don’t look okay.”

He waited until a car slowed down and then hid in the trees, close enough to listen to the driver call emergency services. He listened to the girl explain that she fell and broke her ankle. She also told them there was an escaped ward in the woods.

Matthew ran, but a search party was dispatched. They used dogs to track him.

They took him back to the Centre, and he was returned to the Uniform Supply Factory.

*****

“Maybe next time you should stick to places you’re familiar with.” The supervisor didn’t punish Matthew any more than he had before, even though this was his second escape attempt.

He knew that next time he needed to get the collar off. If he could at least pass as something other than a ward, he might be able to get farther.

He waited and he paid attention.

Greg, the supervisor, pulled Matthew into his office. “Sit down.”

Matthew sat.

“Three strikes and you’re out. Better make the next one count,” Greg said cryptically.

“What will you do?”

Greg laughed. “Not me. I hate this shit. Don’t get caught and you won’t have to worry about it. What I’m wondering is how a blind kid gets as far as you do. You’re now officially on a discipline routine.”

And so Matthew found himself sitting in Greg’s office every evening while the older man filled out paperwork. So far as a discipline routine went, it was more than tolerable.

Matthew spent the time focusing. He explored every inch of the room with his senses. Every time Greg opened and closed his top desk drawer, there was a rattle of metal.

Keys.

All the keys for the collars of the wards he managed.

Matthew only needed to wait for the right opportunity.

The supervisor wasn’t mean and he didn’t go out of his way to hurt him and the other wards under his care. He didn’t take advantage of his position. Just for that, Matthew felt bad for what he was about to do.

He waited until they were alone; no one was in the hall. Just Matthew and the supervisor. He moved fast. One punch. That was all it took, and Matthew didn’t use any more force than what was necessary. Greg had been good to him. He didn’t want to hurt him.

However, there was still blood on his hand when he stood up. It didn’t slow him down from going straight to the desk; straight to the drawer and key chain.

The key. _His_ key.

He didn’t know which was his. They weren’t labeled in any way he could identify. He quickly went through the set, trying each one until one turned. Each failure felt like an eternity. But still, the hallway stayed clear, and Greg stayed unconscious.

The collar came off. It was the first time having the collar off since being detained.

He put the keys back in the drawer and hid the collar behind a filing cabinet.

Nothing. No alarms. He walked out the back door.

He took a breath. And he ran.

First, he found a house, waiting outside until the resident left for work in the morning. He snuck inside and found some clothes to replace his uniform. He found a pair of sunglasses on the counter to hide his eyes. He knew he could pass as sighted, but his eyes always gave him away, the way he never actually focused on whoever he was talking to or what he was doing.

This time, he took Greg’s advice and stuck to what he was familiar with.

He went home. Without the collar, he didn’t look like a ward. A long-sleeve shirt was all he needed to hide the ID bracelet. He hitched a ride into New York, back to Hell’s Kitchen. Back to St. Agnes. He knew the building.

He hid in the basement. It had been off-limits as a kid, but that had only made it more enticing. Unlike the other kids, he had never needed a flashlight, and the darkness hadn’t scared him. Down there, he was the one with the advantage. He knew where there was a hollow wall at the far end under the stairs. He was able to crawl in through an open board. It was a tiny space, barely big enough to turn around in, but it was enough for hiding.

He snuck upstairs at night to get food and water and to use the bathroom. He managed to remain undetected for a whole two days.

It was Sister Catherine who found him. She was in her fifties—kind, always laughing, one of those people who just never stopped moving. She came into the basement and called out asking if anyone was there.

“Matt? Is that you? I got a call that they’re looking for you. If you’re here, I want you to know, I want to help you.” She placed a muffin on the floor and walked out.

He picked it up as soon as she was gone. It was still warm from the oven, and he ate it in three bites. Apparently, she took the muffin theft as a sign. A fresh toothbrush and toothpaste, and a clean towel waited for him on the sink in the bathroom that evening.

She came down more frequently after that. She left behind hot food, desserts, drinks. Matthew left her the empty plates. She sat down on the floor and talked, even though he never came out and he never answered. She talked about how the younger kids were doing, what they were doing. Matthew missed them, he wished he could visit, but he knew he couldn’t let any of them know he was there.

“You need to get out of the country. Canada is a start. We can do that. We’ve done it before. Next week, okay? I’m going to help you.” She was quiet for a while. “Matt. Will you come out and talk to me?”

If she was going to turn him in, she would have done it by now, right? He crawled forward out of his hiding place, just enough for her to see him.

She rushed forward, and before he could retreat, she had him wrapped up in her arms. She smelled good, like apples and sugar. Matt buried his face against her shoulder as she rubbed his back. They didn’t talk. He could have stayed in her arms forever.

She used a bolt cutter to take the bracelet off his wrist. She explained her plans in more detail. Everything was set. She had a friend in Canada who was coming down to visit. She would help him cross the border.

The police raided the orphanage a day before he was set to leave. Matthew heard it all. The little kids upstairs were screaming as Sister Catherine was handcuffed and led away. The police were tearing apart the bedrooms, tossing things on the floor in their haste to find anything. They threatened to shut the whole place down.

Matthew gave himself up. He couldn’t listen to the threats anymore. What would happen to the kids if they were sent to a Centre-care facility? What if the system betrayed them as badly as it did him?

Sister Catherine was still in the street when Matthew was dragged out from the basement. He heard her scream as a collar was fastened and locked around his neck. The last he heard of her was when he was tossed in the back of the correctional van and taken back to the Centre.

He wasn’t taken to the pens this time. It seemed to be more like a lab. Someone moved to his right, he felt a sting in his arm and then nothing.

He felt sick when he woke up. He didn’t know where he was. He felt cold, off balance. Whatever he was lying on felt hard and uncomfortable.

He was nauseous, in pain. The pain centered around his back. It felt deep. Invasive. Matthew shifted and a hot stab of agony rolled up his spine.

He reached back. Bandages. Surgery? It was difficult to breathe. He reached his fingers over top the fabric of the bandage and could feel the uneven surface underneath. And the pain. Stitches. He was shaking. He took a deep breath and focused inwards. It was deep. It was under his skin. And it hurt. He didn’t know what it was.

He had a collar around his neck, and a new ID bracelet around his wrist.

***** 

He was returned to the Uniform Supply Factor the next day. He walked slowly, every step shifting whatever was in his back. Someone grabbed his arm and pulled him forward, forcing him to move faster.

He was brought straight to the supervisor’s office. The office smelled different. Before, it had smelled like cigars and coffee. Now it had more of a metallic scent. The desk was in a different position.

The man standing in the room to greet him was not Greg. There was a new supervisor.

“Down,” he ordered.

Matthew winced as he lowered himself to his knees. He was left there for hours, until the pain in his back turned into numbness and he couldn’t keep his eyes open.

The new supervisor never shared his own name, he insisted on being called _Sir_. He never used any of the wards’ names. If he wanted someone specific, he would call out the ID number. He carried the correctional collar remote with him everywhere. He used it frequently.

Matthew was targeted by the other wards. They assumed he was at fault for the loss of their former supervisor. No one knew if Greg had been fired or if he quit on his own, but it made sense to blame Matthew.

So they did small things. Undetectable things. They would not make room for him at the table during meal times. They would not speak to him other than when necessary, and a thick layer of hostility coated every interaction.

Just as dinner began, the new supervisor pulled Matthew aside. He walked him to the side door of the building, and then outside.

“I want you to know what will happen if you try to run again.”

Matthew didn’t move.

The supervisor used the shock collar and Matthew flinched. “Go ahead, start walking.”

Matthew walked. He felt his back get warm. Whatever was inside him started to hum. It vibrated.

“Keep walking.”

Matthew moved forward.

It was sudden. He felt like he’d been set on fire. Like something inside of him exploded. Like every nerve was firing at once. He screamed but he couldn’t breathe to make noise. He fell down, unable to even use his arms to protect him when he hit the ground.

He heard the footsteps of his supervisor walk up. “Understand?”

Matthew couldn’t answer, he couldn’t stop shaking. He couldn’t move. He heard two other sets of footsteps walk outside; they grabbed his arms, pulling. He cried out from the movement because of the pain. He could barely breathe. They dragged him back inside. Every movement was agony, and when they left him on the floor beside his bed, he nearly sobbed with relief.

Even in the morning, he couldn’t move. An old towel was tossed on the floor beside him when he couldn’t push himself up to make it to the toilet. The other wards laughed. He felt the sun rise, the warmth crawling across his back as it passed the window, and the chill as it ducked below the horizon again at the end of the day.

It was the next night when he found the strength to push himself up off the ground. He cleaned up the mess. Cleaned himself. Drank enough water from the tap so that his throat no longer felt like sandpaper. He crawled into bed for what was left of the night. At least, they’d left him on the floor and his bed was clean.

He was back to work the next morning.

He was assigned to loading the washing machines. All he did was take the dirty laundry and fill the washers. Someone else was assigned to move the washed clothing to the dryers. There was no rotation. Just endless routine, every day, all day. He listened for the machines to finish their cycles, for them to be emptied so that he could refill them. And on and on and on. Every day.

Matthew spoke to no one because there was no one who would speak to him. The only person who would even acknowledge his existence was the new supervisor, and he dreaded each and every interaction they had.

He stopped eating. Food tasted wrong. It made him feel sick.

He was prescribed nutritional supplements to replace the meals he couldn’t hold down. Cans of thick milk that tasted like powder and chemicals. 

When he could not even stomach that, he was put in restraints to be tube-fed. 

He escaped into his mind. He silently repeated all the stories Foggy had told him. He tried to recall them word for word. He imagined Foggy’s voice, imagined a running conversation, because even though he talked to no one out loud, at least he could have company in his head.

He spent over two years at the Uniform Supply Factory.

His first three years as a ward of the state were over, then his lease was up. The contract was not renewed, and he was returned to the Market.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A super-secret note on the Immobilizer Technology... 
> 
> The "Immobilizer" implant was developed by A.I.M. (evil hydra engineers) to be used in top-secret detention facilities to control inmates. In this case it is a device with a filament that is wired into the epidural space of the spinal cord. It is based on a real-life pain-relieving technology called a neurostimulator. The mad-engineers modified the design to emit enough of an electrical impulse to disrupt the dorsal root's ability to communicate with the motor neuron resulting in temporary paralysis. The lasting pain and immobility is due to the high intensity shock causing temporary swelling of the nerve tissues (temporary induced myelitis) from the trauma. Studies A.I.M. conducted on rats and primates shows permanent neurological deterioration in prolonged usage. Chronic conditions such as headaches and neuropathy are common.
> 
> If you want to know what the real-life neurostimulator looks like:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KmfXMmjPPTw
> 
> The technology was purchased and adapted for use by the Centre to control wards with severe discipline issues such as escape attempts and violence against their keepers. A GPS locator was added for the purpose of tracking and disabling.
> 
> *********
> 
> About Collars...
> 
> A modified electroshock-belt (used in US prisons and court houses) used to control prisoners. The Centre has argued that around the neck the device is more effective and more readily accessible in case of malfunction. The use of collars is viewed as necessary deterrents for public safety as many state-wards are criminals who are part of the system for a reason. They are viewed as humanitarian because the consequence of using a shock device as a deterrent is far less serious than the firing of guns.


	11. The Past: Matthew's Third Placement

**First Missions Baptist Church**

Pastor Raymond was not in agreement with the board of directors when they decided to purchase a lease.

“It’s cost-effective,” they said. “It’s only a little more expensive than employing Mrs. Dunbar.”

And so the decision was made; there were concerns. Where would they even put a ward? Consulting Centre guidelines, they discovered that wards were accustomed to small areas. They decided to convert the office bathroom. Not so much convert as much as purchase a sleeping mat and replace the door with something sturdier that had a proper latch on it. It would make do.

They searched through the online database, debating price ranges and options. The safety of their congregation was at stake. They decided to choose a male. Young. Perhaps a cripple, if they could find one not too incapacitated. They wanted someone who would be able to do the cleaning.

A sales agent found a young man fitting their criteria. Young, blind. A violent history, but reformed now that he’d been fitted with an immobilizer implant. The sales agent from the Centre assured them that it had been quite some time since this one had exhibited unsafe behavior, perhaps he could be a little defiant at times, but that could be corrected easily enough with a proper discipline routine.

It was the board of directors who went down to the market and approved the purchase. They brought back a pile of reading material for Pastor Raymond to study. Discipline techniques, feeding guidelines, how to get the best productivity out of your investment.

He still didn’t like idea when the ward was delivered the next day. It sounded like a lot of extra work.

He signed for the delivery at the door. The delivery person walked the ward up the sidewalk to the building. He wished him a good day and left.

So now what?

“I’m Pastor Raymond., your new supervisor,” he said by way of introduction. “I understand your name is Matthew?”

The young man didn’t answer. Raymond took his arm and led him inside. “Do you know where you are?”

“I don’t know.”

Okay, so at least he wasn’t mute. Maybe just slow.

“We are the First Missions Baptist Church. Are you a Christian, Matthew?”

“Yes. Catholic.”

“Close enough.” He led Matthew through the foyer and down the stairs to the church basement. “We set up a space for you. Have you been fed yet today?”

He shook his head no.

The basement was a large open space with four rooms along the walls. One of those rooms was Raymond’s own office. The space they allocated for Matthew had been Pastor Raymond’s private bathroom. He would now have to use the congregation bathrooms on the main floor. It was an inconvenience, but that was what he thought of this entire endeavor. He didn’t have time to take care of a ward.

He led Matthew over to a small table at the back of the room. “Sit down.”

The supplies were kept in the cupboard. They’d accepted donations of ready-made meals from several families and businesses. Basically, the meals consisted of small tins of processed food. He had been told that each tin was a complete meal alternative. It wasn’t like Raymond had a kitchen to work with, and even if he did, he wasn’t about to waste his time preparing food all day. That wasn’t his job. He popped the lid and recoiled at the smell. That would take some getting used to. He dished it into a plastic bowl with a spoon and then placed it in front of Matthew. He kept a hand on the bowl for a moment.

“Say grace first,” he instructed. At first he thought Matthew wasn’t going to comply. He started to pull the food away but then Matthew bowed his head, whispering something too low for Raymond to hear. Good enough. He pushed the bowl back and Matthew started to eat.

“We were informed that you have refused food in the past. Let me know before I feed you if you’re going to eat or not so we don’t end up wasting anything. We’ve got the nutritional drinks here as well.” He watched Matthew eat for a minute then turned toward the box of correctional tools. As stated in the brochure about discipline, it was best to establish an authoritative relationship as soon as possible. Matthew’s personal information booklet suggested social isolation for long term obedience, but everyone knew the training collar was the classic obedience device—quick and effective.

It was highly recommended to avoid using the immobilizer implant other than in times of necessity due to extended recovery times and the risk of permanent damage. It was, he understood, much more useful as a deterrent, and according to Matthew’s record, that seemed to be the case. Apparently, one demonstration of the implant had been enough to stop all attempts at escape.

He waited for Matthew to finish his food and then picked up the remote. “I have your remote here,” he explained. “I’d like you to kneel beside the table.”

Matthew kneeled.

“I’m sure you know how this works, but showing is better than telling.” He pressed the button, just a slight tap.

Matthew flinched.

He pressed the button with more strength and held it down for a count of three.

Matthew let out a pained grunt and fell forward onto his hands. He took a couple of shallow breaths before pushing himself back up again.

“I am willing to do what is necessary to protect myself and my congregation. Do you understand.”

Matthew nodded.

“I want to hear it. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Stand up.” He took Matthew arm and pulled him into his office and towards the converted bathroom. “This is your space. Keep it clean.” He prodded Matthew’s back to push him inside. Matthew held out his arms, exploring the dimensions of the room around him, the wall, the counter. He found the sink and the tap.

“The water has been left on. There’s a cup. A wash cloth, soap, and toiletries are in the cupboard under the sink,” Raymond explained. He watched Matthew touch the toilet and then back up against the far wall. “The toilet works.” There had been a light switch on the wall, but they’d disabled the power. It wasn’t like Matthew needed light.

“I expect quiet when I am working. I think you’ll like it here,” Raymond said. He shut the heavy wooden door and secured the latch.

*****

Pastor Raymond saw to the care of the ward on his days at the office, Wednesday through Sunday. He unlocked the door in the morning and served him a tin of ready-made breakfast. He didn’t like the sensation of being watched, and having the man sit and aim his dead-eyed stare in his direction while he tried to conduct his work was unnerving. He tended to keep the door shut while he was at his desk.

After serving lunch, he took Matthew upstairs to do his chores. He discovered quickly that Matthew was an efficient worker and didn’t need close supervision after being reminded that his immobilizer was actively monitoring and programmed to activate if he should leave the confines of the building.

Evenings were scheduled on a rotation of volunteers. They were to serve him dinner and supervise an hour worth of chores, depending on what needed to be done; things like vacuuming, cleaning the bathrooms, and washing windows.

Matthew tended to be clumsy when Mr. Roberts tended to him. Bruises on his arms, or a black eye after running into a door frame or tripping on things he’d left on the ground.

The Munroe family sent their teenage children. Often they never showed up at all.

Old Mrs. Beaty reportedly enjoyed her visits. Raymond tried to explain to her why it was unwise to bring extra food and treats, but he didn’t have the heart to tell her to stop. Pastor Raymond found Matthew making an assortment of braided bracelets with a selection of yarn one morning after one of her rotations . There was nothing in the handbooks discouraging creative busywork and so he decided to allow it. He collected the finished bracelets and sold them at fundraising events for five dollars apiece.

Frank Dearborn volunteered to take over the duties on Mondays and Tuesdays, Pastor Raymond’s days off. He was one of the board of the directors and retired. It was a heavy burden for just one person, but Frank insisted that he enjoyed having something to do in the day.

Wednesday mornings when Pastor Raymond saw to Matthew’s breakfast, he often found the ward to be somewhat lethargic and unwell.

Sundays were the days that Matthew seemed most interested in. He sat at the back of the auditorium, and afterwards he was invited to join the congregation for coffee and fellowship. He couldn’t let Matthew have any coffee, of course, caffeine was not recommended, but he was allowed to have a small piece of cake or muffin if there were enough snacks left over.

This went on for several months. He thought things were going well. At least, there didn’t seem to be any problems.

It was a disappointment to discover that was not the case. He came in one Wednesday morning, as usual, and opened Matthew’s door to find him unresponsive. At first he thought the ward was only sleeping and so he used a slight tap on the remote to rouse him.

Matthew flinched but otherwise didn’t move.

He used a slightly more persuasive tap.

This time Matthew let out a pained whimper and curled up slightly before slowly pushing himself upright. That was when Pastor Raymond saw the blood at the back of his neck.

“Sit still,” he instructed, holding the remote securely and stepping inside. He crouched down and inspected the back of the collar. He hadn’t noticed it before because Matthew’s hair tended to hide the back of his neck. He shuddered at the sight of the open wounds. He tentatively placed a hand on Matthew’s forehead. He didn’t have a thermometer at hand, but even he could tell the ward was sick with fever. He wasn’t equipped for this. He let Matthew lie back down.

He made a call to Mrs. Kenny, she was a nurse. She came later that afternoon before her shift at the hospital started. Matthew had barely moved since the morning, aside from accepting a cup of water that Raymond passed to him.

She coaxed Matthew out of the small room and had him sit on a chair. Pastor Raymond stood back and watched as she carefully examined him. She performed a full examination. Pastor Raymond felt ill.

There were dark bruises under Matthew’s clothing on his chest and back. His skin was pale, and his ribs all too visible. Pastor Raymond had never actually looked at him all that closely before. He left the room as Mrs. Kenny continued her inspection. He retreated to his computer and pulled up the surveillance footage for the past few months, focusing on the times his volunteers interacted with the ward.

He felt sick. Mr. Roberts, The Monroe teenagers, Frank Dearborn. He’d known them for years. He knew they were good people. This wasn’t like them.

But it wasn’t about them. It was about the ward.

The ward was a corrupting influence. His congregation was good people, it couldn’t be their fault.

The next day he took his evidence to the board of directors. Frank Dearborn was dismissed. Everyone was in agreement, trying to help a ward had been a big mistake. Mrs. Beaty cried when she heard the news and offered to take over the lease, but Pastor Raymond decided it would be best to cut all ties.

He listed Matthew on the auction site. The church would take a loss, but this needed to be done as quickly as possible. He accepted the first bid offered. The paperwork made it official.

Matthew was picked up in a van the day after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone reading and leaving comments!  
> You've probably noticed by now I don't have a beta reader (no matter how many times I go over a chapter I miss so much.)  
> If anyone is interested, I would love to exchange some work.


	12. The Past: Matthew's Fourth Placement

**Them**

Rose Walker used to love her job.

She worked for Centre-Care, finding daytime placements for her disabled clients and doing wellness checks on the residential homes. She made a real positive difference in people’s lives and her job mattered. She worked with people who might have otherwise gotten lost in the system and ended up homeless or in abusive situations.

Sometimes there were funding issues, like there are in any organization. Sometimes, the administrators acted as though the funding they received for the residents in the program meant more than the actual care that they received. But that was their job, and Rose couldn’t fault them for taking the financial side of the program seriously.

There were cracks in the system, but on the whole, they were doing great things. The Centre-Initiative was responsible for a massive shift in social welfare and she was proud to be a part of it.

Then her husband’s job at the manufacturing facility was outsourced to lease-workers and he lost his job.

Rose Walker had loved her job, but it didn’t cover their bills. She applied to the Centre-Lease program when a position came up in the health and wellness department. It paid close to twice what she currently made with better benefits. It couldn’t be all that different than what she was currently doing, could it?

It turned out that, yes. Yes, it could.

There were two main communities within the lease program. There were the criminals who would otherwise be housed in an overcrowded prison system. Those who passed conditional training were labeled as working-wards and selected for placements in workplaces that provided meals and housing until their sentence was served. The other community consisted of state-wards. These were the people the Centre was originally designed to organize. Permanent dependants on the system. They were the illegal immigrants, refugees, and destitute people for whom the Centre found housing and employment. State-ward work programs were the backbone of the Centre’s reputation for finding innovative solutions for society’s more prevalent problems of crime and homelessness.

If only the entire system wasn’t corrupt enough to make Rose want to quit her job on an hourly basis… But, she reminded herself, no system was without its flaws. She only wished that the flaws didn’t consist of businesses taking advantage of the opportunity to shift to a model of cheap labor alternatives—issues like abusive supervisors.

It was those flaws that made her job necessary. Her job was to field the health and wellness calls, sorting through abuse allegations and testimonies.

City business placements, professional and retail, were the easiest to sort through. People were less likely to behave badly in the vicinity of witnesses. Wards were housed together in quarters ensuring their safety at night. Health and safety inspections were convenient and conducted within regular intervals to ensure compliance. Allegations were often lodged by civilian co-workers and associates, consisting mostly of petty disturbances.

She never heard much from the factories. That was where most of the criminals were housed. The locations were remote and inspections infrequent. Outside influence was rare. Many factories existed solely on ward labor and operated for the most part out of the public eye. It was understandable that there were some reports of heavy handed discipline tactics, supervisors had to be domineering in order to keep control of their workers.

The private leaseholders tended to be the worst, but it was difficult to collect evidence when the wards themselves were reluctant to speak out against their abusers. Their future safety depended entirely on the whims of their leaseholders.

The call from the detective came in just before lunch.

“This is Detective Tutuola. I need some intel on the ID number of one of your wards.”

“How is our ward involved in your investigation?” she asked.

She hoped this wasn’t another incident like the one several months ago, when a privately leased ward held a family hostage for over a week after disabling the link between his corrective collar and the remote. The media loved those stories.

_Crimes against citizens, the ward insurgence and how to protect yourself!_

It was always more difficult to sort through reports after one of those stories hit the news. She would be inundated with frivolous calls about wards in public without their collars, and over and over again she would have to explain that it was perfectly legal for a ward not to wear a training collar, even in public. Just because it was the commonly held practice, didn’t make it mandatory, unless there was a specific discipline issue and a direct order.

Her job was supposed to be about protecting wards from abuse directed at them, not easing the fears of the imagined paranoia of an impending ward revolt. Every minute she spent explaining that to hyper-vigilant scaremongers was another minute lost that could have been spent investigating a real claim. There was no lack of real claims out there.

“We believe he may be a victim in an ongoing investigation we’ve been conducting.”

“How can I be of help?”

“We’ve been analyzing video footage of a series of the assaults that have taken place over the past few months. The only identifying information we’ve been able to glean from the footage is that the victim is wearing a state-ward ID bracelet. So far we’ve only been able to distinguish only three characters. Do you have the ability to run sequences?”

“Yes. Hold on.” She opened the database app. “Ready.”

“H-9-N.”

She typed that into her computer. “Is that the start of the ID or…?” She trailed off. There were five matches. “Male or female?”

“Male.”

That left only two possibilities. She read off the names and addresses of the leaseholders.

“May I ask what kind of footage it is?”.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss an active investigation. Thank you for your cooperation,” he said and hung up.

She stared at the phone receiver for a few seconds, then placed it on the telephone with a sigh. Another ward she might have been able to help that would likely slip through their cracks. It wasn’t a good feeling.

*****

She didn’t hear back from the detective until a week later.

“This is Detective Tutuola. We retrieved your ward and have him in protective custody at Metro General. ID 3A6H9N.”

Rose typed in the number. “Matthew,” she said briefly as she read his specs. He was young, only in his early twenties. And he was blind. “What about the leaseholders?”

“They were gone by the time we got there.”

***** 

Rose made arrangements to have Matthew transferred to the state-funded clinic adjacent to the Market warehouse. That was where Rose first met him when she went to conduct his interview several days later. He was in a multi-patient room with eight beds separated by curtains. The attendants brought a chair and a table for her to work on. There wasn’t a lot of space, but this wasn’t her first onsite interview at the clinic. She knew how to make do.

The ward lay on his side in a narrow bed, an IV hooked up to the back of his hand. He seemed asleep, but it was difficult to tell. There were gauze bandages over each eye, his face was swollen and bruised. There seemed to be barely an inch of him that wasn’t covered in bruises or abrasions. His wrists were bandaged and Rose had seen the evidence photos of the wires that had been wrapped around his wrists as restraints. His chest and back were a mess of welts and lacerations interspersed with circular burn marks. The medical examiner in conjunction with the forensics teams had already concluded their investigation and she expected the detailed physical assessment to be delivered sometime in the next week.

At least he’d already been blind. The resources to provide physical therapy and retraining to a disabled state-ward simply didn’t exist. She hated to see wards this young relegated to long-term confinement facilities. His future productivity would probably remain intact, but that would depend on his ability find another lease placement.

“Matthew? Can you hear me?”

“Yes,” he answered hesitantly.

“I’m here to take your statement. How are you feeling?”

He shifted slightly. “Better.”

“Can you tell me what happened to you?”

His voice was barely above a whisper. “I can’t.”

She sighed. “Matthew. You need to tell me what they did to you.”

He shuddered slightly and seemed to curl into himself. “I deserved it. It was my fault,” he said quietly.

“Matthew.” Rose took on a more authoritative tone and he flinched. “Tell me what they did to you. I can’t help you unless you tell me.”

There was a tremor in his hand as he reached out and gripped the safety rail on his bed. She could tell he was on the verge of becoming emotional. She hated this part of her job. It was so hard not to become emotionally attached to the people she was assigned to work with. More often than not, they needed so much and were so damaged that nothing she could do could help them. She couldn’t risk her own peace of mind by getting involved. It was best to keep firm boundaries and remain professionally detached.

“Please. Don’t send me back there.” It was a desperate plea.

Sometimes they still broke her heart.

“You won’t go back. Hasn’t anyone explained anything to you?” Rose asked with exasperation. “You’re not going back there. What those people did to you is illegal. They won’t hurt you anymore.”

“What— What will happen to me now?”

“You’ll stay here until you’re ready to be returned to the Market to find a new lease.”

“What if no one wants me? They said they’d make sure that, if they ever sent me back, that I’d be worthless. They said no one will ever be able to look at me again without knowing exactly what I am.”

“What are you, Matthew?”

He didn’t answer.

“Let’s just start with a statement. Tell me what they did.”


	13. Respite

 

Foggy placed a cool, wet cloth on Matt’s back over the vertical scar just to the right of his spine over the immobilizer implant. He wasn’t sure what else to do. Matt was out cold. The information on google proved to be utterly useless. All he found were promotional sites detailing how awesome and necessary the immobilizer technology was.

_Security and Safety for you and your ward!_

He looked up the FAQ.

_How long before my ward can return to work?_

_Recovery times may vary. Expect a 24h delay in productivity._

Matt remained asleep (unconscious?) for the rest of the night.

Foggy ended up sitting on the floor beside Matt’s bed. Matt was going to be okay. He reached over and placed his hand on Matt’s arm just to reassure himself. Everything was going to be fine.

He closed his eyes for just a moment, only to be startled awake in the morning when the alarm clock rang at seven a.m..

Foggy jumped up and tripped over his own feet in a rush to switch the ringer off before it could wake Matt up, but when he looked back at the bed, Matt was already slowly pushing himself upright. At least, he seemed to be trying to, it looked like even the slightest movement hurt.

He cursed himself for forgetting to turn the alarm off the night before. It was Saturday. No one needed to get up. But then he remembered leaving it on deliberately so they’d have a chance to get an empty washing machine in the laundry room before everything filled up. That obviously wasn’t going to happen.

“Lie back down,” Foggy said.

“Bathroom.”

“Oh.” Foggy leaned onto the bed and wrapped his arm under Matt’s shoulder. He managed to get Matt upright, but getting to the bathroom was going to be a challenge. “Ready?” The next step would be getting Matt up on his feet. They did it, though. Foggy ended up holding most of Matt’s weight, but he managed to get him to the toilet and back.

He helped Matt lay back down and Matt rolled onto his back in what looked like a futile attempt to get comfortable.

It had been six hours since the device went off. “How bad is it?”

Matt’s breathing was shallow. “It hurts,” he admitted.

“Has this happened before?”

“This is the second time.” Matt tensed as he shifted again to find a better position.

“I’ve got some aspirin. See if it helps.”

Matt held out his hand and Foggy passed him a couple of little pills and helped him sip from a bottle of water.

“Is there anything I can do?” Foggy asked.

Matt curled his fingers weakly against Foggy’s leg. “Stay?”

Foggy covered Matt’s hand with his own. “I will.”

***** 

Foggy knew when Matt fell asleep because Matt’s hand became limp and dropped off his leg and onto the bed. He slowly eased off the mattress and found the essay he’d been meaning to work on. Hours passed. Foggy didn’t leave the room. He snacked on the box of granola bars and the bag of Doritos he had stashed under his desk and tried to chew quietly.

He didn’t even realize when Matt woke up until he heard his voice.

“Foggy?”

“Right here.” He turned. It was late afternoon already. Matt was looking better. Tired and sore, but so much better than even just a few hours ago. “How are you feeling?”

“Not as bad. Foggy?”

“Yeah?” Foggy caught on to the hesitancy in Matt’s voice that often cued that Matt was about to ask for something he didn’t think he would be allowed to have. He was careful to wait for Matt to continue at his own pace.

“Do you remember telling me about how your dog ate your Christmas turkey?”

“When did I tell you about that?”

“At the hospital,” Matt explained. “Your sister Candace let the dog inside and the dog jumped up on the table.”

“And stole the Turkey,” Foggy finished. “How do you even remember that?”

“I remember,” Matt insisted but didn’t explain. “Can you tell it to me again?”

“Why?”

“I like— I like listening to your stories.”

“Okay, sure. My mom, my real mom, not Rosalind, spent hours making that dinner. That was the year, well, there was a lot going on, and she had it in her head that we had to have the perfect Christmas dinner. It was like the fate of the universe absolutely hinged on the holiday being a success. Did you have turkey for Christmas dinner at St. Agnes?”

“Turkey and ham. Christmas was a big deal. I think we had church groups coming in to make us dinner just about every weekend in December. Father Donovan didn’t have the heart to turn anyone down. Or maybe he just liked dinners.”

“Did you do anything?”

“Field trips. Every year we all went to Rockefeller Center to see the Christmas tree. There were bells one year. I liked that. And skating.”

“You can skate?”

“I usually held on to someone’s arm. But, I’d try and get a couple laps in on my own. It’s not that hard. Everyone goes in the same direction, it’s easy to follow the sound of the people in front of you.”

“And you’re you.”

“And I’m me,” Matt repeated, but it didn’t sound as positive when he said it as when Foggy did. “You were telling me about the turkey.”

“Right. The turkey. So, mom and dad had the whole table set up, and the house was full of aunts and uncles and cousins, cause like I said, my mom wanted a perfect Christmas, and so we were hosting it at our house. We had a golden retriever called Missy, and mom was keeping her in the backyard while the whole gathering thing was happening.

“But Missy hated being away from people, and Candace thought it was rude to exclude her like that, so she let her in. And the next thing you know, Missy opened her mouth, it looked like her whole head came unhinged, and she grabbed the turkey right off the table and ran. You’ve never heard so many aunts screaming. It was hilarious.

“But of course, mom was devastated and that made it less funny. My uncle Irwin though, he’s got a butcher shop, he jumped in the car and came back with a huge box of chicken breasts. Dad heated up the barbeque, and that’s what we had. Everything worked out really well.”

Foggy watched Matt smile and stretch a bit, wincing as he straightened out slightly.

“Was the turkey a better success the year after?” Matt asked.

Foggy cleared his throat a bit uncomfortably. “No. That was the last Christmas I spent at home. This year though, we’re going to try the turkey thing again, but with just us, not the whole extended family thing . You’ll have to tell me if there’s anything they made at St. Agnes that you want us to try.”

“Do you still have Missy?”

“No. She died a peaceful and totally turkey-unrelated death a couple years later. She was really old. Technically, she was my dog. I don’t think my parents are going to get another.”

“I think I’m ready to sit up,” Matt said and slowly maneuvered himself upright, pausing a few times to breathe through the pain before pushing himself further. “I think the plan was to study today.”

“How about I take a turn reading our philosophy textbook out loud?” Foggy pulled out the book and settled in beside Matt on the bed.

Everything was going to be fine.

 


	14. Duress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you DalamarF16 for being an awesome beta!  
> All mistakes are my own from messing with it again after getting it back. :)

 

The start of European History class seemed entirely normal. Matthew sat at the back of the hall on the top tier and listened to the other students wander into class and noisily take their seats. The scraping of chairs, books thumping onto desks. Backpack zippers. Conversation.

He sat alone.

He could sense a person walking up the aisle, and so it wasn’t a complete shock when an arm brushed against his back, but it was a surprise that the person sat down in the desk next to his own. Temporarily. There was no backpack or books, the student sitting next to him had placed his things elsewhere and seemed to be planning on returning to them before class started. Male. Average height, size. He smelled like soap and coffee.

“Hi, I’m Dylan.”

Matt braced himself for whatever might come next. The incidents with Axe were the most recent interactions he’d had outside of Foggy, and he wasn’t expecting this to go any better.

“Your name is Matthew, right?” Dylan continued when Matthew failed to answer. “I’ve seen you around campus with your—uh…”

“Foggy,” Matt supplied. “My supervisor. His name is Foggy.”

“Right.” Dylan’s heart sped up for a moment before leveling out again. “So, how are you enjoying classes?” It came out patronizing, but on the scale of things Matt expected to be subjected to on a daily basis by citizens, patronizing was pretty low of the list of things he cared about.

 _In comparison to endless loads of laundry, being confined, or hoping to be forgotten?_ Matt thought to himself. “It’s good,” he answered.

“Yeah.” Dylan lapsed into an awkward silence. “I was wondering... If you think you might be allowed to... uh, if it is ok, I’d like to bring you to a group I’m in.” Dylan’s heart started racing again.

Was he talking about paying Foggy to rent him? Maybe hoping just to get Matt to agree to it himself and skip the middleman? Foggy wouldn’t go for that. Never. Matt knew of at least two instances where Foggy had been offered money from someone to ‘borrow’ Matt for a few hours, or to do them a ‘solid’ and get Matt to do some chores or an errand.

Most of those conversations took place presumably outside of Matt’s hearing, but still, super senses. He’d been tense at first while Foggy seemed to consider the offer and too far away to assess Foggy’s heartbeat, but Foggy’s voice had been loud and clear. _Not even in a million years, you asshole._ That was the kind of thing Matt had been thinking about when Lynn had asked him if Foggy was good, even when no one was watching.

“I should probably ask your supervisor, right?” Dylan continued.

“Yes.” Matt didn’t really want to know, but he found himself asking nevertheless. “What kind of group is it?”

“Just... You know... A group. We’re abolitionists,” Dylan answered uncomfortably. “I’ll ask anyway. Unless you think your supervisor will be mad. I don’t want to get you in trouble. I can explain that you don’t have to stay for the meeting, if that helps. You’re kind of in a unique position, being a student here. We’d like to talk to you and get your outlook on things.”

Maybe Foggy would be interested in going, too. “Can my supervisor come?”

“Yeah. I mean... we kind of wanted your perspective outside of what you might be able to say around your leaseholder, but if that’s what it takes for him to allow you to go, that would be okay.”

“I can ask,” Matt offered. It would be better with Foggy there. If things weren’t what Dylan said they would be, Foggy would step in before anything went too far. “Should he phone you?”

“My phone number.” Dylan shifted and pulled a paper out of his pocket, wrote his number down and passed it to Matt. It felt like the size and texture of a store receipt. He slid his finger over the impression of the ink on the paper.

“Oh. Sorry. How should I write it?”

“Foggy can read it.” He put the paper in his pocket before Dylan could take it back.

He felt Dylan reach across him and pull at his textbook. The friction of Dylan’s fingers scratching against the cells on the paper came to his ears.

“This is how you read? Was it hard to learn?”

“Practice.” Matt ran his finger lightly over the cells. “Each letter has its own symbol. Like how you read with seeing letters, but feeling them instead.” He led Dylan’s hand over the cells. “This is the chapter title.”

Dylan raised his voice. “Hey, Steven, come take a look at this.” Another student stomped up the stairs and pressed in on Matt’s left side. He ran his fingers over the print. “Did they teach you how to do this at the Centre?” Dylan asked.

“I haven’t always been—” Matt froze as another student leaned over from behind his shoulder.

Her hair was long and she was close enough that the ends tickled Matt’s neck. The chemical imitation of strawberries scented the air around her, making him want to sneeze.

The heat radiating off the three bodies around him felt uncomfortably hot. He wanted to move, but he didn’t. He felt trapped, but he wasn’t. They weren’t holding him down. _They weren’t._

Steven tugged at the ID bracelet from under Matt’s sleeve.

“What’s his number?” The girl behind him asked.

“3A6H9N.”

She moved away slightly and he listened to the padded tapping of her fingers against a touch screen. Dylan leaned across him to look at the ID bracelet as well. “Does it come off?”

“No,” Matt answered. His chest felt tight. He couldn’t even work up the breath to clear his throat.

_They weren’t hurting him. He was fine. Nothing was going to happen._

They examined the chain.

“Looks like a medic alert bracelet, but thicker.” Dylan tugged on it, squeezing his finger between Matt’s skin and the chain. It had been fitted to allow only the minimal amount of distance so it couldn’t be pulled off.

“Why don’t you wear a collar?” Steven asked and Matt flinched as fingers brushed across the scars on his neck.

“I got it.” The girl behind him said. “He’s on the database. 3A6H9N, Matthew. Current lease held by Rosalind Sharpe. Disabled. Holy shit, what did you do to deserve an immobilizer implant? Is that why you don’t need a collar? Can I see?” She nudged him forward and pulled at his shirt. Matt bent toward his desk, submitting out of habit.

The girl touched his back, running her finger over the scar from the surgery. It didn’t hurt, but he didn’t like it, either. He wanted to tell them to stop. He didn’t.

He knew they wouldn’t listen anyway. He stayed as still as possible. Resistance never worked in his favor. They weren’t hurting him. Even if they were, it was better to wait it out.

The touch went from the surgery scar then laterally over his ribs. He felt her fingers ghost over the intersecting pattern of the numerous scars marring his skin before quickly pulling away.

“Shit.” her voice was barely a whisper, her heart was racing, and she smoothed his shirt back down and withdrew slightly. Even though he’d wanted her to stop, the sudden recoil of her attention stung, reminding him exactly what he was.

Damaged. Disfigured. Marked.

He hadn’t noticed the crowd that had formed until that moment.

“What the hell happened to him?” Not Dylan, not Steven, and not the girl. Someone else. He didn’t remember the name. There were other lowered voices nearby. Too close.

“Shut up,” the girl said.

“Someone did that to you?”

Matt didn’t answer.

“Why?”

_Why else? Because they could._

The girl behind his back spoke again. “Who’s his owner? Do you think he did this to him?”

“It’s that Foggy guy.”

“I have a class with him.” The girl said quickly. She leaned down closer to Matt’s ear. Her breath felt warm. “Matthew, did Foggy do this?”

Matt shook his head no. When the door of the classroom slammed, he flinched and everyone around him startled. The hands retreated and the bodies backed away, and he was left feeling suddenly cold and alone.

*****

The room was silent.

“Matthew. Gather your books and come with me,” Professor Wiebe ordered from the front of the room.

Matthew packed his books back into his bag and stood. He could feel everyone watching him as he walked to the front. The professor turned and strode out of the class. “Follow me.”

The tapping of his white cane echoed loudly as he followed the professor down the hall. He could hear the students clumping around the door, watching. He was led to a small office. Professor Wiebe stepped aside and held the door.

“Inside,” he simply said.

_Run._

Matthew hesitated before moving forward. He _knew_ what was going to happen to him if he stepped inside. He knew the vulnerability of the position he was in.

What would it mean to disobey his professor?

_Run._

Only Foggy had the right to discipline him, but the back of his neck itched where the prongs of the electric shock collar had left scars. However, it wasn’t pain he was afraid of.

He would get expelled from the class.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe there was still a way to fix things. This was his professor. A professor wouldn’t—

“I said get inside,” the professor repeated.

Matthew entered and the door closed behind him, shutting him in alone. It was the professor’s office, probably had been for years, judging by how deep the scent of the man permeated everything inside.

There were filing cabinets, a desk, an old couch that smelled of stale cigars. Matthew didn’t move. He’d been told to step inside, not to sit down.

He listened as the professor walked back to the classroom. Matthew flinched again when the lecture room door slammed shut.

 _The students who were talking quietly suddenly went silent._ _The professor’s step was heavy. Angry._

_“Explain.”_

_“We were just talking to him.” Matt recognized Dylan’s voice. He sounded defiant. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”_

_“The classroom is no place for a ward,” Professor Wiebe stated. Matthew heard the squeak of a marker on the whiteboard. “Have this finished for tomorrow’s class. Dismissed.” He walked back out._

Matthew had already known he was in trouble. He wasn’t wrong. This wasn’t going to end well. He was supposed to stay out of trouble. He wasn’t supposed to let Foggy down.

He was still standing exactly where Professor Wiebe had left him when the door opened again. A hand gripped his arm and roughly moved him to the side, pushing him against a metal folding chair against the wall.

“Sit down.”

Matthew sat. The door closed. A lock clicked into place.

They were alone. No one was going to come and defend him.

“When I was told there would be a ward attending my class, I was assured that your presence would not be a distraction to my students.”

Foggy had ordered him not to kneel, but he had to. He _had_ to. This wasn’t Foggy. He slid down off the chair onto his knees and lowered his head. “I’m sorry.”

The professor stood in front of him.

“May I call my supervisor?” Matthew asked. He was alone with a person who had power over him in a locked room. He needed Foggy, this wasn’t something he could fight his way out of. That part of him, the part that could stand up for Lynn in the cafeteria, or run outside after curfew to rescue Foggy from a potential beating, was powerless here.

The professor didn’t move and Matthew waited.

“How long has Mr. Nelson been your supervisor?”

“67 days.”

“I read your profile. I know of Ms. Sharpe’s reputation as a leaseholder. I was shocked she would pull a stunt like this. So, tell me, Matthew, why are you here?”

“I don’t know.” He’d been asking himself the same question since the day Foggy had brought him into the dorm.

“According to student records, Ms. Sharpe is paying the way of both Mr. Nelson and you. I can’t imagine your future productivity will ever be worth the expense.” The professor sighed and crouched down. “You must be very special.”

Matthew fought to bring his breathing under control. “My supervisor needs to know where I am,” he somehow managed to desperately whisper.

“Will she still think you’re special if you get removed from my classroom?”

“I’m not special.”

“Do you know that you are the first ward to attend Columbia? It’s common enough in community colleges, but not here. We have higher standards, and your attendance here will set a precedent. Your owner has taken a significant financial and social risk in securing this opportunity. That puts a lot of pressure on you to succeed. How do you think Ms. Sharpe will respond to failure?”

Matthew couldn’t answer. He wasn’t thinking about Ms. Sharpe, he was thinking about Foggy. Thinking about how disappointed Foggy was going to be. Foggy had saved him from the Centre, bought him comfortable clothes, fed him good food, never hurt him, and so far he’d done nothing for Foggy in return. He wanted so badly to make Foggy proud.

“What are you willing to do to succeed?”

It wasn’t about success. He couldn’t even think in those terms. This was about survival. He felt sick.

“I’ll do whatever you want me to do.” It wasn’t an ultimatum or a solicitation. Just a statement of fact. The professor could use him and kick him out of class anyway, and no one would dare do anything against him, maybe not even Foggy. What choice did he have?

It wasn’t like he’d never been used before. What did it matter if he was used again?

“Convince me. What kind of things will you let me do to you, Matthew?”

Matthew flinched when the professor placed his hand on the side of his face, the thumb caressing his cheek felt like hot sandpaper. His hands cupped Matthew’s face, fingers stroking over his lower lip before moving upwards and removing Matthew’s glasses. The urge to gag was overwhelming with the influx of sensations Matthew was desperately trying to suppress. The smell on professor Wiebe’s hand: coffee, bacon, onions, sweat, cigar. The taste of all those things when he touched Matthew’s lip.

_He could not go through this again. He couldn’t._

“Anything you want,” Matthew said, panting. His face felt wet. He welcomed the taste of his own salty tears when they reached his mouth.

“It will be our secret. Tell me how much you want it.”

He would do whatever he had to do. It wouldn’t change anything. No one had to know.

“I want it,” he whimpered, still trying and not succeeding to get himself back together.

The professor made a self-satisfied noise and stood up. Whatever Professor Wiebe wanted from him, he’d got it. The professor walked away and sat down at his desk, flipping through papers.

“This is exactly what I was expecting from you. At least now we can put a stop to this ridiculous nonsense once and for all.”

There was a click and Matthew heard his own voice played back to him over a small speaker.

_What are you willing to do to succeed, Matthew?_

_I’ll do whatever you want me to do._

_Convince me. What kind of things will you let me do to you, Matthew?_

_Anything you want_

_It will be our secret. Tell me how much you want it._

_I want it._

The sound seemed to echo in the quiet. It played again, this time slightly different.

_What are you willing to do to succeed, Matthew?_

_I’ll do whatever you want me to do. Anything you want. I want it._

The professor picked up his phone, dialed. There was ringing on the other end. A familiar voice.

_Hello._

Matthew knew, in that moment, his world was about to come to an end.

“Mr. Nelson, this is Matthew’s European History teacher, Professor Wiebe. I’ve got your ward here at my office in the Asper building, room 302. You’re going to have to come get him.”

_Is Matt alright, what happened?_

“I’ll explain when you get here.” He hung up the phone.

“Don’t tell him. Please.” Matthew’s chest had felt tight before, but now it felt like he was being crushed under a truck load of bricks and the tears that had been coming before turned into harsh ragged sobs. There was no dignity left to hold on to. Matthew leaned forward and braced himself against the floor feeling like he was being torn to pieces from the inside out.

“You did this to yourself. If you hadn’t said those words, you wouldn’t be in this position. No one held a gun to your head.” He heard the professor reach across his desk, and a box of tissues was thrown and landed a few feet away from him. “Ms. Sharpe should thank me for putting an end to this farce before wasting too much of her money on you. Clean yourself up. Have some respect.”

Matthew felt like he was drowning, but he reached over, pulled the box closer and used the tissues to wipe his face and blow his nose. He took deep calming breaths. He didn’t feel any better, but at least he was able to contain the breakdown within himself. They waited in silence.

It didn’t take long, Foggy must have run to arrive so quickly. Matthew could hear Foggy as soon as he entered the building, but he still flinched when he heard the knock on the door.

*****

Professor Wiebe stepped past him and pulled open the door. Foggy was slightly out of breath, his heart racing as he stepped inside. And then he stopped. Matt felt himself cringing under the scrutiny aimed at him.

“What’s going on? Why are you on the floor?” Foggy reached out and gently took hold of Matt’s upper arm, pulling him up and onto the chair. The touch was painful in its tenderness because he knew what was going to come next. He propped his elbows on his knees and covered his face with his hands, grateful for once to not be able to see Foggy’s expression.

Professor Wiebe waved at the chair across from his desk. “Have a seat. We have a serious matter to discuss.”

Foggy stayed by Matt’s side with his hand over his shoulder. “Did you tell him to kneel?”

“He did that on his own,” the professor stated. “Mr. Nelson. I regret to inform you that your ward has exhibited unacceptable behavior for a student of this university.”

Matt felt Foggy’s fingers grip his shoulder just a little harder before forcing them to relax. “What did he do?”

The professor sounded grim. “He solicited sexual services.”

The hand on his shoulder withdrew. Matt had been through worse—so much worse. The fact that this hurt in a way so much deeper than any of those physical injuries had ever done was frightening. It wasn’t just about getting expelled from Columbia, it was that, for a little while, he had felt like a person again. He’d dared to let himself want something more, to think about the future. He’d found someone who had believed him.

Foggy stepped away and the chair across from the professor’s desk scraped against the floor as he pulled it back and sat down. “Did anyone hurt him?”

“He’s safe for now, Mr. Nelson, but for the reputation of this school and the security of our students on campus and of your ward, this kind of conduct cannot be tolerated.”

“Of course not,” Foggy answered, “but I’m having a hard time believing Matt would do anything like that.”

Professor Wiebe played the recording, and Matt was forced, again, to listen to his own words. Those humiliating words he had been forced to say and that were now being used against him. Maybe, if he wasn’t a ward, someone might have taken his word about being set up. _But he was a ward_ , and wards were typically characterized as conniving. Whether it was to avoid discipline or gain favors, wards were known to be willing to do whatever needed to be done.

_What are you willing to do to succeed, Matthew?_

_I’ll do whatever you want me to do. Anything you want. I want it._

Even his tone betrayed him in the recording. The despair in his voice only sounded salacious in playback.

Foggy’s breath was quick and shallow. Matt listened to the accelerated rate of his heartbeat and wished his hearing could extend to the thoughts going on inside Foggy’s head. A racing heart could mean so many different things. Disappointment. Anger. Disgust.

“I am obligated to file an incident report with the student admissions board to immediately remove Matthew from all classes and student activities until a formal review can be processed,” Professor Wiebe explained. “I wouldn’t feel too bad about it, if I were you. It was inevitable and perhaps fortunate that it happened now rather than later, because you can only imagine the scandal this sort of thing can cause if he should actually succeed in his plans.

“I understand Matthew has been exploited in former placements, but please, keep in mind that this kind of behavior can’t simply be unlearned in a matter of months. Perhaps you can still make use of him for more mundane duties, or as a sublet worker. The janitorial department is always seeking extra help.”

The silence stretched out for a long moment and then Foggy asked, “How do you know about his former placements?”

“All the faculty have been briefed on his history.”

Matt could clearly hear the disdain in the professor’s voice. _All his professors knew his history?_

“You know what was done to him?” Foggy’s question echoed Matt’s own agitation.

Professor Wiebe tapped his fingers impatiently on the desk. “Yes, of course I do.”

Matt listened to Foggy’s foot start tapping lightly on the floor. Matt knew how easily Foggy thought he could read him, but it didn’t go just one way. Matt knew a lot about Foggy as well. Matt had spent a considerable amount of time studying everything there was to know about Foggy.

Matt knew that Foggy got cranky when he was hungry. He knew that Foggy didn’t like cinnamon, but that he’d been buying cinnamon pastries for Matt since he had learnt it was something that Matt liked. He knew Foggy didn’t seek out confrontations but that he could more than hold his own in an argument. He knew when Foggy was being especially clever or cunning, like when he was talking someone into something and winning, because he would start tapping his foot in anticipation.

Right now Foggy was tapping his foot like crazy.

“What made you decide to bring Matt into your office?” Foggy asked.

“He caused a disturbance in my class.”

“So, you were already upset with him when you brought him in here?”

“I will not have that kind of disorder in my classroom,” the professor insisted.

“He thought he was in trouble,” Foggy stated. “You brought a ward with a history of exploitation and abuse into your office, you made him think he was in trouble, and then asked him what he would do to succeed while you secretly recorded the conversation?” Foggy asked. “Does that sound accurate?”

Matt could sense the heat building in Professor Wiebe’s face.

Foggy cleared his throat. “Yeah. So, you won’t be filing an incident report, because if you do, I will file a complaint to the Dean’s office that you violated university policy by exploiting your position and authority to lure an unsupervised ward into your office, fully knowing that he lacked the capacity to consent.”

Foggy’s chair scraped back on the carpet and he stood up. “Get up, Matt. It’s time to go.”

Matt stood. His white cane was pressed into his hand. He listened Foggy pick up his backpack and shrug it over his own shoulders.

Professor Wiebe had one more statement to make. “He does not belong here, Nelson. It’s only a matter of time before everyone sees it.”

Foggy pulled Matt out of the office, not bothering to respond.

He tightened his grip as Matt tripped on a step on the way out of the building, his steps unsure from both having been kneeling on the floor for a long time and the overwhelming emotions he was feeling.

Foggy hadn’t abandoned him in Professor Wiebe’s office like Matt had expected him to, but that didn’t mean they were okay. Everything was far from okay. There were no assurances that Professor Wiebe wouldn’t file an incident report despite what Foggy said.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Matt whispered.

“Not now,” Foggy snapped.

They headed straight back to the dorm room, and Foggy kept his grip on Matt’s arm the entire way and didn’t let him go until the door was firmly closed.

“Did you say those things?” Foggy asked, his voice tight, stressed.

And Matt wiped at his face as tears started falling once again. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t like that.”

“Then tell me what it was like,” Foggy demanded.

Matt sat down on his bed. He didn’t know how to answer.

He sensed Foggy kneeling on the floor beside the bed and heard cardboard sliding against the floor as a box was pulled out. There was the smell of dust. It was the box from the Centre. The box with the discipline tools inside it.

“What are you going to do?” Matt asked, a shiver of dread running down his spine.

“I’m getting your registration and lease papers.”

_Foggy was going to return his lease, or put him up on the auction site._

Matt felt everything plummet into a dark abyss. He lost focus on the room around him, on the scents and the sounds. He grasped the edge of his bed, feeling like he was spinning in circles.

And then hands gripped his shoulders, shaking slightly. A hand on the back of his neck pulled him forward against the warmth of Foggy’s shoulder, and the sudden relief only made Matt cry harder.

“Hey. No. No, no. This isn’t— This isn’t what you’re thinking. I’m not going to hurt you, okay? I’m just getting your papers. I know what we have to do.” He let Matt go and grabbed the documents he’d left on the floor and shoved them into a bag. Then he turned back to Matt. “Are you alright? Are you ready to come with me?”

Matt didn’t answer.

“We will talk later,” Foggy promised. He reached for Matt’s hand and tugged him forward. “Come on. Let’s go. Take my arm.”

Foggy waited. Matt took his arm but he still hadn’t recovered the mental stability to focus, so walking out of the dorm room with Foggy felt a little like stepping off the edge of a cliff. He didn’t know where they were going or what was going to happen.

Foggy led him to the administration building, straight to the Dean’s office. They stopped at the administrative assistant’s desk.

The apprehension in Matt’s chest about whatever might happen next made it difficult to breathe.

“We need to file a complaint against Professor Wiebe.”

 

 


	15. Consent Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you DalamarF16 I can't begin to express how much more fun it is to have someone to hash these things out with and get feedback from. 
> 
> All mistakes are my own from messing with it again after getting it back. :)

 

_I’ll do whatever you want me to do. Anything you want. I want it._

Matt sat in a chair across from the Dean’s desk and gave his statement while Foggy stood off to the side by the door.

The Dean, Dr. Locke, leaned forward slightly, elbows on his desk. “Matthew. Did you want to?” he asked, and Foggy could clearly see Matt’s back and shoulders tensing more than they were before, if that was even possible. He noticed in that moment he was tense too. He hadn’t even bothered to ask, and though he knew what he wanted Matt to say, he had no idea what Matt was actually going to say.

“I didn’t want to.” The words came out as barely more than a whisper. Foggy could barely help a relieved sigh. He trusted Matt, but he knew how much Matt wanted to be at Columbia. 

“Then why did you say you would?”

“Professor Wiebe told me to,” Matthew answered.

“Do you always do what you are told?”

“That’s… I have to.”

“Have you been told to do these kinds of things before?”

“No, not since my last placement. Not since then.” Matt’s voice was unsteady as he stumbled over his own words.

“Matthew,” Dr. Locke asked. “Why are you attending school here?”

“To be trained. To work for my leaseholder.”

“Thank you, Matthew,” Dr. Locke said. “You’re dismissed. I’d like to speak to your supervisor now. Please wait outside.”

Matt stood up and felt his way around the chair and towards Foggy and the door. Foggy held it open. “There’s a row of chairs along the wall to your right.”

Matt seemed to hesitate for a moment before walking out, and Foggy closed the door. Not that a closed door actually meant anything when Matt was around. He took Matt’s place in the seat across from Dr. Locke’s desk.

The man was immaculate. If Foggy wasn’t freaking out and expending every last ounce of energy trying to hide the fact, he would have been impressed with the amount of order. The office looked like it could be featured in a design magazine. How could anyone actually do any kind of work in such an environment? Diplomas and certificates lined the wall, all of them protected by matching glass frames and placed at perfectly balanced intervals from each other. The majority of the awards were in the fields of psychology and philosophy.

“I’m not ready to abandon this project just yet. Mr. Nelson, what do you think are the chances that Ms. Sharpe will be willing to overlook this mishap and continue Matthew’s schooling here?”

“She will. Keep him in school, that is,” Foggy answered.

This was all spiraling out of control and Foggy felt like he was running in circles. He couldn’t really understand where the problem was. Matt was the victim in this mess, not the culprit—why did no one else seem to be aware of this?

It was a well-known dirty secret of the Centre that wards often became accustomed to being abused and exploited by their superiors. He was stupid not to have considered the possibility that someone would try and exploit Matt’s vulnerabilities when he wouldn’t be around to protect him.

Foggy should have done a better job protecting him.

In hindsight, it had been extremely arrogant to assume he had everything under control. He knew Matt’s history. As lease supervisor, he’d been given access to Matt’s complete medical history, not just the abbreviated version available on the Centre’s online database that anyone with Matt’s ID number could access. He’d read Matt’s statement and the police report. He’d been disgusted by all the sadistic things that had been done to him and by what he’d been forced to do. He knew what had caused Matt’s scars.

How could he have even possibly assumed Matt would be fine after all he had been through?

He shouldn’t have assumed anything. Obviously, it had been a huge mistake.

Foggy shuddered when he thought of all the assumptions he’d made on Matt’s behalf since claiming him at the Centre.

It all started with that first hug at the Market when Matt learned who he was. 

_“Foggy.” Matthew’s voice was rough and barely a whisper. “Foggy, from the hospital?” he’d asked._

_Matthew’s arm had twitched and then he closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around Foggy in a sudden hug. Foggy hugged back, at first gently and then more firm._

It wasn’t Matt’s fault, but it was that first hug that convinced Foggy that everything would be okay. 

He’d hugged Matt back, and he’d felt the tension melting from Matt’s shoulders, and he remembered thinking, ‘This feels right.’ It felt so good to be able to comfort him. Matt’s response to casual touches had only ever seemed positive.

What about the times Foggy touched Matt and startled him? All the times he said Matt’s name just to catch his attention, only to have Matt nearly jump out of his skin and apologize for being distracted, his whole body tensed. Foggy had discounted all of that. 

Confirmation bias. Foggy had wanted Matt to be okay with being touched. In fact, Foggy had even managed to convince himself that Matt actively sought out body contact. He had been so incredibly stupid. In what universe was it appropriate to assume someone recently coming from months of horrific abuse would appreciate any kind of physical contact?

Of course he’d asked Matt if it was okay.

_“Do you always do what you are told to do?_

_“…I have to.”_

Consent meant nothing if the person giving it had no power to say no.

How many times had Foggy sat beside Matt so close their hips were touching? How many times had Foggy rubbed Matt’s back or put his arm around his shoulder? So far, he had never really thought about Matt’s past or how those simple gestures could so easily be interpreted as the beginning of future sexual requests.

Foggy was such an unsympathetic idiot. He would make it up to him for this, he promised to himself.

All this time Foggy had been thinking he’d been cultivating a relationship with someone he assumed was his friend, had Matt been going along with it simply hoping to avoid worse abuse?

It wasn’t Matt’s fault. It was all on Foggy. He wasn’t angry at Matt, he was angry at himself.

Dr. Locke cleared his throat, bringing Foggy back to the present. “We have counselling services available to our students here on campus. I recommend you use it. I do not want a repeat of this incident.”

“Yes, sir.” Foggy answered, grateful that Matt would have someone else to talk with about his issues who could help him bring his life back together.

“Matthew will resume his European History class, and I will ensure that an independent examiner evaluates his grade. I expect his final score to reflect the effort that has been made to allow this mishap go unpunished.”

“Yes, sir,” Foggy said again. He awkwardly said thank you, and walked out. Matt was seated in the third chair to the left, the closest to the wall, and Foggy walked up to him but stopped before getting too close. “Time to go,” he said.

Matt got up and automatically reached out for Foggy’s elbow, but Foggy pushed Matt’s white cane into his reaching hand instead. He noticed it threw Matt off a bit, but he recovered swiftly, switching the cane to his other hand and waiting for Foggy to walk ahead before falling into step a few feet behind. The constant tap-tap-tap of the cane against the sidewalk followed Foggy all the way back to their room.

*****

Matt scooted himself back into the far corner of his bed, and there he stayed. He leaned his back against the wall, knees up and head down. He barely moved, and Foggy, for the first time, wondered if that was some kind of submissive position Matt had adapted after he had ordered him not to kneel anymore. His pushed the thought away, focusing on Matt’s appearance instead. He looked wrung out, the fine lines on his forehead and around his eyes stood against too pale of skin. Foggy made a mental note to bring him outside more; maybe they could study on the lawn before the season turned too cold.

Matt’s eyes were bruised looking, hollow and dark. His hands rested on top his knees, fidgeting with nothing while his thumb was tapping out a non-rhythm against his fingers.

“Where are your glasses?” Foggy asked, mostly because he couldn’t bear the silence any longer and Matt rarely started a conversation; he was silent like the good ward he was trained to be. Where in the hell had his mind been so far? Had he really needed this incident to notice Matt wasn’t even able to start a conversation or ask for something for himself?

Matt brought a hand up briefly to his face. “I— I left them in Professor Wiebe’s office.” His voice was shaky. Foggy remembered, yet again, they were his glasses and they still hadn’t gone out to get Matt his own pair. It didn’t take long for Foggy to realize the motive behind Matt’s fear.

“Why did you take them off?” he asked quietly, hoping Matt would hear his heartbeat and understand he wasn’t mad at him for the loss.

“He took them,” Matt answered. He started picking at the seam of his jeans.

“It’s okay. They were kind of broken anyway, remember? I’ll get you new ones tomorrow.”

Matt nodded and they lapsed back into an uncomfortable silence.

“I guess you heard everything the Dean said after you left his office?”

“Yes.”

“Are you okay with going back to Professor Wiebe’s classroom?”

“Yes,” Matt answered listlessly. “I won’t disappoint you again.”

“You’re not a disappointment,” Foggy assured him. He looked around the room for a distraction, “Catch,” he called out just as he tossed the closest thing he could find on his desk.

Matt caught it with flawless grace. He explored the surface. It was a smooth foam, curled into a cone shape. “A stress ball.” Matt said and gave it a test squeeze before resting it upright on his palm.

“You look like you can use one.”

“You’re not wrong,” Matt answered softly. He trailed his finger around the curve. “The top of an ice cream cone?”

Foggy laughed. “No. Poop. It would be obvious if you could see color. It’s got a happy face on it though. Kind of cute.”

Matt squeezed it in his fist a few times before switching to the other hand. “Does it help?”

“No.” Foggy admitted.

Matt didn’t stop playing with it, though. It was a habit Foggy recognized from other times he’d seen Matt stressed. “You should take up knitting,” he tried to joke, because despite the gift, Matt wasn’t giving any signs of relaxing. “You’d probably end up making the world’s longest scarf and get in the Guinness Book of World Records.”

“I know how to make bracelets,” Matt spoke, his voice hesitant. “Back at one of my placements.”

Foggy frowned. He didn’t want Matt to feel like he had to talk about his past if he didn’t want to. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to hear what Matt had to say, but he didn’t have the heart to stop him. He stayed quiet and gave Matt time to speak if he chose.

He started off slowly, it was apparent he didn’t know what he felt about telling Foggy about his past placements either, but he didn’t stop. “They didn’t give me anything to do. My space was a small bathroom that they modified; sealing the electrical sockets and light fixture. Not that I need light, or anything. They left in the sink and the toilet, at least. I was allowed out only a couple of hours a day to do my work, but most of the time I was by myself.

“It wasn’t _that_ bad, it was better than...” Matt trailed off for a moment before continuing. “I had a mat, and a blanket, and access to water. I’d sit and I’d tell myself stories in my head, the ones you told me back in the laundry room at the hospital—stories I told you. Stories I wished I could have had the chance to tell you.

“There were volunteer supervisors who would come and let me out to do my work in the evenings. It was just cleaning. Different people every night of the week. One of them was this older lady. She liked to talk to me, no one else ever did that. She was a widow. I liked listening to her, and she would come early and stay late, just talking to me. She was the one who brought me yarn and taught me how. She left the supplies with me so that I’d have something to do while I was alone.”

“I don’t have any yarn,” Foggy said. “I could get some though, if you want.”

Matt squeezed the stress ball several more times. “I wasn’t— I wasn’t trying to make you get me anything.”

Foggy wished he could think of something better to say, something good to offer him. “She was nice to you, though, someone you trusted? Would you like me to look her up and give her a call?”

“You don’t mind?”

“Do you know her name?”

Matt nodded. “Mrs. Beaty.”

“I guess you wouldn’t know her address or anything?”

“I don’t know where exactly I was. It was a church. First Missions Baptist Church.”

“It was in your papers, I can look it up,” Foggy offered. He hadn’t put Matt’s registration papers away yet; they were just on his desk and so he reached over and flipped through them. “Westfield, New Jersey. Should I phone the church and see if they’ll give me a number?”

“They won’t— No, don’t phone the church. Maybe just White Pages?” Matt suggested. “Her first name is Edna. Edna Beaty.”

Foggy opened the website and made the search. “Edna Beaty. New Jersey. One Edna Beaty in New Jersey. Do you want to make the call?”

“Would you, please?”

Foggy kept his eyes on Matt the entire time. He watched how Matt had stopped playing with the stress ball when the line picked up, in fact, how Matt was barely moving at all, not even breathing.

_Hello?_

“Is this Edna Beaty?”

 _Yes. Who is this?_ Foggy knew he had found the right person just from the look on Matt’s face.

“My name is Foggy Nelson. I’m, uh, I’m Matthew’s, uh, current lease-supervisor,” he explained. “Do you remember Matthew, the ward from First Missions Baptist Church?”

She was silent for a moment. _Is he alright?_

“Yes. He’s fine. He’s here. He asked me to phone you. Would you like to talk to him?”

_Yes, please. Put him on._

Foggy passed the phone and Matt accepted it. Of course Foggy didn’t have super-hearing and couldn’t hear the other end of the call, but he could hear Matt just fine.

“Hello… Yes, yes, I’m good... He’s good... I’m in New York…” He turned toward Foggy for a moment. “I can’t... I have to— I’ll pass you back to my supervisor,” he said and held the phone back out, clearly distressed over whatever was said on the other end of the line.

“Hello?” Foggy said again.

 _I’d like to arrange a visit._ Mrs. Beaty stated bluntly. _I’d like to see for myself that he’s alright._

“Sure. We don’t really have the space here, but could we come to you? On a weekend, maybe? Does that work?”

They arranged a date on a Saturday a couple weeks away. She gave him directions, even though he insisted that he could look it up on Google Maps. Then Foggy passed the phone back to Matt. Matt didn’t talk much other than to reassure her again that he was well cared for. He told her he was looking forward to the visit and said goodbye. He passed the phone back to Foggy again and went back to torturing the stress ball.

“Are you alright?” Foggy asked him.

“Mmhm. I’m fine.”

 _Clearly not,_ Foggy thought.

“We could look someone else up if you want? Is there anyone you’d like to talk to?” he offered, trying to keep Matt talking to him.

Matt exhaled sharply. “There’s no one. Not like this.”

*****

Foggy couldn’t sleep half the night. He kept thinking about Matt’s answer about not having anyone else he’d like to phone.

*****

_There’s no one. Not like this._

Foggy came to a conclusion sometime around three am. There was no one Matt wanted to talk to, _not like this_ , but that wasn’t the same as saying there was no one at all. There was someone. But even talking briefly to Mrs. Beaty had left him agitated and upset.

Matt had been seventeen when he was seized by the Centre. He probably had friends back then. Friends he hadn’t seen since he was free. What must it be like, having to face people who knew you before, when what you were now was something so completely different than what you were then?

Foggy knew. When he was sick, near the end when he could no longer go home from the hospital between treatments, he told his own friends he didn’t want to see them anymore. He hadn’t wanted them to see what the cancer had done to him. 

_Not like this._

In hindsight, he understood it had been a mistake. His friends had just wanted to see him, they didn’t care how sick he was, they’d just wanted to support him in any small way they could.

He’d taken that away from them. Just like Rosalind had taken the following three years of his life.

Foggy rolled over and buried his face in the pillow. Rosalind was not what he wanted to be thinking about late at night. He’d end up having nightmares for sure. It was so much easier to dismiss her in the daytime when there were plenty of other things to distract him from darker thoughts. 

 

_You wouldn’t even be here if not for me. You should be thankful._

Foggy rolled over again and switched on his bedside lamp. It was technically true. He should be thankful, but it was hard to be thankful for something he’d had no say in, a decision that if he had the chance to go back and choose for himself he would have refused.

He didn’t care that it meant he wouldn’t have survived.

And damn it, he didn’t want to start crying.

Matt rolled over to face him, groggy but awake. “Foggy? Are you okay?”

Foggy sniffed and coughed. “Just a bad dream. Go back to sleep.” He wiped at his face with his bed sheet.

He was grateful for Matt. If he couldn’t care about himself, then he could at least care about Matt. Matt was safe and a student at Columbia, and all of that was because Foggy survived. He had Rosalind to thank for that.

He repeated it to himself over and over again until he fell asleep.

*****

Morning came too soon and Matt was already awake by the time Foggy got up. He sat patiently on the edge of the bed while Foggy unlocked the collar and placed it in the top drawer of his dresser. “I’m going to send in a petition to have your curfew resolved. It’s been a couple of years since you tried to run, hasn’t it?”

“Two years,” Matt said. “Do you think they’ll remove the implant?”

“I’ll make the request. You won’t try and run away again, will you?” He’d meant it to be a joke, but only realized as he said it how not funny it was.

“I won’t run away from you,” Matt said seriously.

The sincerity behind Matt’s words made it that much worse. “I should hope not. I’d have to find a new roommate.” Foggy couldn’t stop himself, he simply stood in amazement at how much of an asshole he could be.

Matt said nothing.

Foggy sighed. The morning wasn’t getting off to a good start. “We’re going for breakfast early because I want to stop by the student counselling center and see if we can snag an appointment for later today.”

“You think I need counselling?” Matt asked.

“I think it would be more shocking if you didn’t. Maybe they can help you, Matt.”

“ _You_ are helping me,” Matt insisted.

“Someone better than me. I’m not trained for this. I have no idea what I’m doing, and I think, so far, I’ve been doing just about everything wrong. I think we can fix this, but we need help.”

Matt didn’t agree or disagree. He just got up and finished getting ready.

Foggy wished things were different. He wished he could go back thinking he and Matt could be friends, but he couldn’t just play stupid anymore, not when he knew through ignorance he inadvertently hurt Matt even worse. He couldn’t be friends with someone who felt forced to agree with whatever he said. He would try and make the effort, but if the best he could do for Matt was to learn to be a good supervisor, he would be the best damn supervisor there ever was.

As they headed to the cafeteria, it was weird how different it felt not to be walking with Matt at his side. He’d grown used to guiding him and offering a commentary on the world around them. Now he wasn’t even sure Matt  _liked_ his constant blathering. He probably didn’t, it wasn’t like Matt ever voluntarily added much to the conversation.

Lynn was serving at the breakfast buffet. Foggy watched her lean forward slightly towards Matt and whisper something. Foggy couldn’t hear what she said, but he did hear Matt whisper back, “It’s good,” before moving down the line with his plate. Matt took his tray to his usual table at the far end of the room while Foggy paid.

Usually Foggy joined him, but this time he hesitated. He’d never actually asked Matt if he wanted company at breakfast. What if Matt wanted to sit alone? Matt would never say. Matt had to endure Foggy all day every day from the moment he woke up to the moment he fell asleep, (minus their separate classes). Maybe Matt sat that far away because he hoped Foggy would eventually catch a hint and give him some peace.

Foggy took a table near the front, sitting alone. He noticed Matt notice, tilting his head slightly to the side and frowning slightly before turning back to his food.

Foggy had to stop watching Matt. He was seriously turning into a creeper, but even after making the conscious decision to not watch him , he found himself sneaking glances his way anyway. He felt confused. Counselling was going to be the best thing for them. At least Foggy could get some insight follow some guidelines that would benefit them both.

He noticed Matt had been paying attention to him too, because he stood up at the same time Foggy did to deposit his tray into the cleaning rack, and they met at the front and walked out together.

It only took a few minutes to reach the counseling office. Foggy gave their names at the counter, Matt pulled up his sleeve to show his bracelet so the receptionist could verify his ID number. Foggy filled out both intake forms and they were asked to wait while the receptionist scheduled an appointment for them.

“You can come back at two,” the receptionist informed him.

“Both of us?”

“Dr. Locke briefed us on your situation. He suggested a joint session.”

That wasn’t exactly what Foggy had been hoping for, but he wasn’t about to go against the Dean and say that out loud, plus, the man knew what he was doing, so if he had suggested a joint session, it was probably for Matt’s sake.

The day moved horrendously slow.

Foggy kept his seat beside Matt, and helped him out by whispering a word or two when their professors wrote something on the board without dictating it out loud. He kept his interference to a minimum, though, and was careful not to invade Matt’s personal space. It felt so unnatural to Foggy not to lean over and describe things as they happened. Such as, when the Philosophy professor accidentally spat his gum out of his mouth in the middle of a sentence and everyone pretended it had never happened.

They ate lunch together on the lawn because the day turned out to be mild and sunny. Matt offered to pick up sandwiches for lunch and Foggy passed him his expense card. “Any specific kind?” Matt asked.

“Anything that smells half fresh and non-lethal is good.” Foggy was rewarded with a brief and almost inaudible snort as Matt walked across the lawn to the vendor. It turned out to be the best sandwich he’d ever had and it made him contemplate making Matt the official sandwich fetcher from then on.

One more class, and it was finally time for their counselling appointment. Foggy was actually looking forward to it, mixed with just a touch of dread. He didn’t exactly know what to expect from a joint session, besides how could it be possible for Matt to speak freely, knowing Foggy was there with him? It would be a good thing, he repeated to himself, to throw his doubts away. Matt was going to finally get some help adjusting. It would be good. They’d be fine.

The student counsellor was only few years older than Foggy, completing part of her practicum at the counselling clinic.

“My name is Sarah, Behavioral sciences major,” she greeted Foggy as he entered and waved him over to a chair to the side of a small desk in the tiny treatment room. There was one chair.

Before taking his seat Foggy glanced at Matt. “I’ll go grab an extra chair from somewhere.”

The student counsellor looked a bit panicked for a moment before quickly stepping in front of the door. “You’re here for Compliance Coaching. The Dean said you need help managing your ward. I’ve been looking forward to your session, there aren’t a lot of student leaseholders or supervisors who come in looking specifically for ward handling strategies here at the student clinic.”

Foggy stopped. Ward handling strategies didn’t sound good. “The Dean said that?”

“Yes. Compliance coaching. There’s only supposed to be one chair. For you, of course.”

Foggy didn’t know. “Where’s Matt going to sit?” he asked.

“He’ll kneel beside you. I have a pillow for him if you want. Kneeling is a naturally stress reducing pose that will help your ward accept your authority over him. Studies have proven that it gives them a sense of belonging, it’s good for them,” Sarah explained.

Foggy sighed. He _did_ want to learn how to be a better supervisor. He glanced at Matt and then backed up and let the student counsellor close the door. She smiled. “May I check him?”

Foggy had been avoiding all physical contact with Matt and the idea of giving permission to a stranger to touch him felt like even more of a violation. “What do you need?”

“Just to inspect the back of his neck and his wrists. Those are the most obvious places for signs of excessive corrective enforcement. I’m here to help, not to judge. All counselling sessions are private. I just need to get an idea of where you’re at discipline-wise before suggesting a plan to move forward.”

Foggy could get on board with that, what he needed most were ways to help Matt without hurting him.

“Matt, show her your neck and your wrists,” Foggy instructed.

Sarah stepped closer and prodded gently at the scars on the back of Matt’s neck, and then stepped around and viewed his wrists. She turned his hand over slightly, assessing the circular scars. “These are all healed. Are they from a previous placement?”

“Yes. The one just before mine.”

“Have you used any restraints on him since your purchase?”

“No.”

“And what about the collar?”

“No. Other than curfew. He’s on mandatory supervision between midnight and five am.”

“He’s a runner?” she asked. “That’s usually what the curfews are for.”

“In the past. Nothing recent,” Foggy specified. She seemed nice enough. At least she seemed to care.

“And what are your current correctional techniques?” she asked. “Generally, what do you use?”

“I haven’t actually had to use anything. He’s really…” Foggy hesitated a moment, trying to find the right words to describe Matt’s behavior without letting her know he had been considering Matt as a friend rather than as a ward until just recently. Most people already knew enough not to become friends with a ward. “He’s very obedient,” he said finally.

“But he solicited a professor, didn’t he? That was what Dr. Locke said.”

“Yes.” Foggy cleared his throat. He _had_ to explain Matt was the one who’d been manipulated. Why did no one seem to consider that? “But he doesn’t... he’s never done that before. It wasn’t his fault.”

“And what about past placements? Are you aware if he’s been expected to behave that way before?”

“Yes.”

“And how about now? Do you expect similar things from him?”

Foggy felt himself turn red. “No. That’s not—no.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything.”

“Right.” _Like hell._ Foggy took a deep breath. “So? Where do you want Matt to sit? Or?”

“Instruct your ward to kneel beside your chair.” She took a seat across from Foggy.

Foggy looked over at Matt again who hadn’t yet moved throughout the entire exchange. Matt was nervous again; he was tightening and releasing his fists as though squeezing the stress-ball “Matt?” Foggy asked him.

Sarah nodded and a knowing smile spread across her face. “Okay. I see the problem. This is classic. Franklin, you are clearly not comfortable with setting boundaries. Uncertainty causes stress. You need to tell him, not ask him. Take your seat and try again.” She passed him a thin square pillow and Foggy placed it on the floor beside him.

“Kneel beside me,” Foggy said uncomfortably. Matthew stepped up beside the chair and knelt.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter up soon!


	16. Consent Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you DalamarF16 for your beta work and contributions!!!

“He seems to have a good disposition,” the student counsellor said approvingly when Matt kneeled on command. She wrote something down in her notebook. “What are his main duties?”

“We attend classes and study. We’re students,” Foggy answered.

“What about evening employment? Weekends?”

“He needs time to study, just like anyone else.”

The student counsellor sighed. “You need to keep him occupied.”

“What do you mean?”

“Wards with too much time on their hands tend to end up with disorders. Anxiety and depression are the ones we encounter most often. Wards go through special training to condition them to become efficient workers. That’s what they’ve been trained for and it defines their self-worth. Stress related issues are seen most often in wards with unhealthy work environments and too much idle time. For their own peace of mind, wards must be kept occupied as much as possible.”

“He studies a lot,” Foggy deadpanned, still asking himself how this could possibly help Matt, and coming to the conclusion it wouldn’t.

Sarah sighed. “What are your goals for Matthew’s future? I realize you are only his supervisor, but do you know what his leaseholder’s plans are for him?”

“Law school.”

“Interesting.” She wrote that down as well. “Those are long term goals. That means it is even more important for you to develop strategies for long term discipline now before it becomes an issue in the future. The sooner you develop a routine, the better off you’ll both be.”

She passed a folded pamphlet across the table to Foggy. “First, it’s important to establish the key features of a good supervisor.”

Foggy looked down at the list.

_Strength._

_Confidence._

_Consistency._

“Strength. Your ward needs to know that you mean what you are saying; avoid making threats, but if you do, make certain it is something you are willing and able to follow through on.

“Confidence. Command, don’t ask. Your tone of voice matters. If you don’t believe in yourself, neither will your ward.

“Consistency. Make sure your ward knows what is expected from him, and what he should expect if he does not live up to your expectations. Training is an ongoing process and it is important to keep up a regular routine. This makes for good boundaries and reminds your ward that you are his master, not his friend.

“Now about correctional techniques,” Sarah continued, completely oblivious to her Foggy’s lack of enthusiasm. “I cannot express to you how important it is for you to learn how to discipline your ward properly. It is best to develop good habits right from the beginning. Beating your ward is never acceptable.

“Try not to over-compensate your discipline out of anger. That is when most of the corrective collar injuries take place. The best way to deal with bad behavior is to remove yourself or your ward from the situation as quickly as possible. Are you familiar with the concept of quiet rooms?”

“No,” Foggy admitted. He could take a guess, though. Now he was absolutely sure this wasn’t going to help Matt at all, and his primary goal became how to get out the counselling session without getting censored for uncooperative or rude behavior. Getting on the bad side of the Dean was not going to do Matt any favors.

“Find a small secure space, a closet with a sturdy door does nicely,” Sarah continued, still absorbed in her own monologue. “It gives everyone a chance to cool down before moving on to the next step.

“Once you are ready, explain to him what he has done wrong and why he needs to be punished. Discipline him and move on. Studies have found that subduing techniques are seventy percent more likely to achieve long term discipline goals than the corrective electroshock collar.

“Other than in emergency situations, the collar should only be utilized as a short term deterrent, or as a means of engaging his attention.”

She narrowed her eyes at Foggy and frowned. “Why don’t you have Matthew wearing a corrective collar?”

Foggy sighed. This again. Why did everyone get worked up about Matt not wearing a collar? Wasn’t it bad enough that Matt had a GPS tracker and immobilizer capable of paralyzing him for hours _implanted_ in his spine. Didn’t that make the collar just another unnecessary humiliation? He knew better than say that out loud though. “There were fresh burns on his neck when I picked him up from the Market. I wanted to give him a chance to heal.” The explanation sounded weak, but Foggy thought there was at least a chance she might buy it.

“He’s healed now, and if it makes you more comfortable you can avoid further injury by using the shock impulses on a lower setting. Maybe you don’t realize the danger you are putting him in. There has been a forty percent reduction in defiance related shootings since the corrective collars have become mainstream. It is irresponsible to risk the security of everyone around you based on misguided assumptions about humanitarianism. What is more humane? Keeping criminals in overcrowded prisons, or integrating them back into society in a safe and guided manner for the benefit of our economy?”

“Matt’s not a criminal.”

“And yet he clearly did something to deserve being detained indefinitely as a state-ward, or otherwise we wouldn’t be here discussing this now. Franklin, your ward needs to wear a collar.”

He didn’t even try to explain how Matt had ended up into the ward program. She clearly believed in the benefits of the Centre program, and he knew well enough that nothing he could say would change her opinion.

He decided to try logic. “The law—”

“There is a bill in the house right now calling for stricter collaring guidelines. All you will accomplish by letting him go uncollared is to draw unnecessary attention on both of you. The collars were designed as safe and effective tools to ensure the protection of both citizens and wards. The collars are a safe, and humane security device. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Foggy said, now even more determined to get out of there than before, if that was even possible.

She passed another pamphlet across the table. Foggy picked it up.

_The Five Tenets of A Good Ward_

“Matthew,” she said. “Do you remember the five tenets of service? You should have learned them back in conditional training.”

Matthew looked like he was someplace far away, and Foggy couldn’t blame him. Foggy wanted to be someplace else as well.

He tried not to look down at Matt on his knees at his side. He tried not to think about the pinky promise he’d made.

_I can’t change what they did to you, but I’m never going to treat you like that. We were friends first remember, and that’s how it’s going to stay._

_Let me prove it to you._

So much for proving it to him.

Sarah leaned forward and snapped her fingers to get Matt’s attention when it became clear he wasn’t responding.

He flinched at the sudden noise. “The five tenets are acceptance, productivity, silence, appreciation, and contentment,” Matt answered, and the distress in his voice as he recited the words hit Foggy straight in the heart.

“Well done,” she praised him. “Can you recite the verses to me?”

Matt nodded and took an unsteady breath. “Acceptance. A good ward is obedient and submissive.”

If Matt had leaned those tenets back in conditional training, how impacting had the lesson been for him to still remember it word for word five years later?

“Productivity. A good ward works tirelessly and is worth only as much as he produces.”

“Silence.” Matt’s voice faltered briefly and he needed to clear his throat before being able to continue. “A good ward is a quiet—”

“Stop,” Foggy said. “Matt, stop.” He made a show of looking down at his wrist, it would have been more convincing if he’d been wearing a watch, but he doubted Sarah would notice. “I’m sorry. I forgot. We need to go,” he apologized. “Thanks. For everything. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

“Keep the list; the more often you have him say the tenets out loud, the better he’ll be able to assimilate the lessons. I think it will be beneficial for you to schedule a series of coaching sessions with me to help you establish an effective disciplinary routine.”

“I’ll talk to the secretary, thanks.” He almost reached down to help Matt up but stopped himself in time. “Matt. Come.” He said tersely and then winced at how it sounded like he was commanding a dog. He needed to get out of the clinic as fast as possible without losing his temper in front of the counsellor, and telling her exactly what he thought about her opinions about the Centre and proper ward disciplinary techniques. He pocketed one of the business cards off the desk and promised to phone as soon as he had a chance to look at his calendar.

_Not even in a million years._

Matt didn’t make an attempt to reach for Foggy’s arm this time, he fell into pace a few feet behind and followed. Foggy made a fist, crumpled the pamphlets in his hand and he tossed the whole lot of them in the first trash can he found along the way.

*****

It hadn’t escaped Foggy’s attention that the first thing Matt had done back in their room was resume his place back in the far corner of the bed against the wall. He even had the poop-shaped stress ball clutched in his hand and was apparently torturing the poor thing.

Foggy was pacing their small room back and forth, still trying to get over how pissed off he was about the disaster of the counselling session. There were things he needed to say to Matt, he really wanted him to know he had no idea of what they were going to do there, that he had thought it would be helpful for him. He had no intention to bring him back there, nor of making him wear the corrective collar, but he needed to calm down first. Letting Matt know how upset he was wasn’t going to help anyone.

Matt gripped the stress ball so tightly it practically disappeared in his hand. Or maybe Matt already knew how upset he was. Of course he did; Matt wasn’t stupid.

“I’m sorry,” Matt voice was barely louder than a breath.

Foggy stopped pacing. “What for?”

“You’re angry. What I did—” Matt stopped in the middle of the sentence, and then took a deep breath and started again. “Foggy. I know what I did was wrong. I know you have to punish me. I’m sorry. I never meant to put you in this position. I know that, when you took on the responsibility of being my lease-supervisor, you weren’t expecting this kind of burden. You weren’t expecting me to be this broken.”

“You aren’t a burden, and you aren’t broken,” he tried to reassure him. _This was what Matt thought he was angry about?_ “You were taken advantage of and manipulated by one of your professors. It wasn’t your fault, and I’m not going to punish you because you tried to save yourself in a bad situation.”

“Then why won’t you let me come near you anymore? Every time I get close, you push me away. I’m not going to— I’ve never done anything like that to you. I would never. I can feel it every time you come close to me, your heart races as though you’re afraid. I’m not— I’m not going to try to seduce you.”

Foggy sat down. He could barely process what Matt was saying. He’d done everything wrong, again. He felt his eyes sting and he ended up wiping tears away with his sleeve. “Matt, the only thing I’m afraid of is hurting you.”

“Foggy,” Matt said desperately. “ _This_ is hurting me. What can I do? Please, let me fix this.”

“I need to know that when I do or say something you don’t like, you’ll tell me. When you gave the Dean your statement, and you said you had to do what you were told, it made me think about all the things I’ve been doing that might be hurting you that you don’t tell me because you think you don’t have a choice.”

“That’s why you don’t want to touch me? You didn’t... you haven’t done anything like that,” Matt insisted. “From the time I got detained to when you found me at the market, you are one of the only people I’ve met who hasn’t tried to hurt me. I like how it feels, to be touched and not be afraid. I like being able to feel your heart beating when I sit close to you. It helps drown out everything else when I can’t. I like having you to hold onto when I can’t get control; when the thoughts in my head won’t be quiet and I feel like I can’t keep going on. Foggy, please. Don’t take that away from me,” Matt’s voice broke on the last words.

“I won’t. I’m sorry,” Foggy said. He crawled up on Matt’s bed and Matt leaned into him.

They sat together for a long time, Foggy thinking, and Matt just holding on. It had been a really shitty day and they were both exhausted.

*****

Foggy woke up with Matt squished between him and the wall. He gently rolled to the side, allowing Matt more room, but Matt shifted and rolled up against him again.

“We missed dinner,” Foggy whispered.

“What time is it?”

“Eight pm,” Foggy sighed and sat up, placing his hand on Matt’s arm to keep the physical contact between them.

Matt was still for a moment. “There’s still some pasta left at the cafeteria.”

“You can smell that?”

“Overheard it. Apparently, we’re not the only ones who missed dinner.”

Over the past few weeks, Foggy had gotten more used to statements like that, but it never failed to send a chill down his spine. Sure, on the scale of superhuman abilities to have, super senses might rank kind of low, but Foggy found it amazing nonetheless.

“I’m not really hungry, are you?”

“If you don’t want to eat, I’m fine too.”

Foggy took a deep breath. He’d thought about this, and he wanted to make things right. Even though his track record in doing the right thing had been abysmally low so far, he was thinking that maybe this time he could do better. “I think we should do what the counsellor suggested and start a sort of training program. There’s something I need you to do for me.”

Matt pulled away from Foggy’s hand and sat up, his expression looked grim but resigned to face whatever fate Foggy had decided for him. “What do you want me to do?”

If this played out the way he wanted it to, it would be totally worth it. If it didn’t, he could sum it up as just another failure to add to the list. Foggy took the plunge. “I want you to return the book you got a couple of days ago from the library.”

“It isn’t due back until next week.” Matt looked completely taken off-guard by the request. Foggy had never given Matt a deliberately unreasonable order before, and so he wasn’t surprised that Matt looked kind of confused.

“Are you saying you won’t do it?”

With only the hint of a sigh, Matt got up from the bed and felt around the books on his desk. He found the one he had just started reading. “This one?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to return it now?”

“No. Put it down.”

Matt put it down. “When do you want me to return it?”

“Matt,” Foggy sighed, “Do you want to return it?”

“Yes, you told me to.”

Foggy leaned forward. “Matt. Take off your socks.”

Matt frowned, but he sat down, pulled them off, and waited. Now he looked completely confused. Foggy would have laughed at his expression if it wasn’t so heartbreaking.

“Okay. Put your socks back on,” Foggy instructed. Matt complied. “Why did you take your socks off and then put them back on again?”

“You asked me to.” Matt was getting frustrated; Foggy could tell by the way he scrunched up his eyebrows.

“Did you want to?” Foggy pressed.

“It doesn’t matter whether I wanted to or not. _You asked me to_.”

“It matters to me,” Foggy insisted. “I need you to learn how to say no.”

“Fine. No,” Matt responded.

“Not good enough. We have a serious problem here.” Foggy explained. “Did you want to return your library book? Did you want to take off your socks?”

Matt didn’t answer the question, and Foggy suspected that it was very likely that Matt didn’t even know what the right answer should be.

“Matt, how can we be friends when you can’t tell me, no? That’s not how friendship works.”

“No. If it makes you happy, I’ll say it again. No. That’s what you want?” Matt’s voice was even starting to rise and though it gave Foggy no satisfaction to upset Matt, this was going exactly how he wanted it to.

Knowing how much their friendship meant, Foggy knew exactly what buttons to push. “If we’re going to be friends, I need to know you’re for real and not just playing along with whatever I say.”

“I thought we already were friends.”

“We are. But we could be better.”

“I said it, no. I don’t understand, what do you want from me?”

“You said no because I asked you to say it, not because you wanted to. Are you going to tell me I’m wrong?” Foggy waited, Matt said nothing. “You need to be able to say no before someone ends up hurting you.”

“They will anyway. I don’t want to get kicked out of school. I don’t want to get sent back to the Centre. What am I supposed to do?” Matt was finally starting to lose his temper. It was these little moments of defiance that Foggy loved most, a brief glance into what Matt must have been like before the Centre got a hold on him.

“We need to do something different, because what we’ve done so far isn’t working. As for the Centre, that isn’t going to happen. No matter what, you aren’t going back there.”

“How can you be so sure of that? Ms. Shape—”

And there it went, the spark of anger fizzled. He’d already managed to get Matt worked up, now he needed to reassure him. “Rosalind has nothing to do with any of this. She’s just the name on the paper because she had the power to make the arrangements. I promise you, Matt, nothing is going to get you sent back. _I promise you_.”

Matt settled down. “Okay. I believe you.”

“Good. Now this whole ‘no’ thing. Just in case there’s any misunderstanding, I formally give you permission to say no. Do you understand? You are allowed to say no. To anyone. Especially me.”

“Yes. I understand.”

“And we’re going to have practice,” Foggy added.

“But I don’t mind doing what you ask me to do. You never tell me to do anything I don’t already want to do.”

“Matt. Take your book back to the library.”

“Fine, I get the point. No. I don’t want to take the library book back because I’m still reading it.”

“Take off your socks.”

That time Matt laughed. “No.”

“Those were the easy ones.” Foggy snickered. “Okay, Matt. We’re going to go have dinner.”

“But what if I want to go have dinner?” Matt asked, grinning.

Foggy grinned back. “Stop saying no.”

“Foggy.”

“Matt.”

“No.”

“No, what?” Foggy asked.

“This is ridiculous.”

“Fine. You said the cafeteria still has pasta?”

“Yes. Are you going to sit with me?”

“Do you want me to?” Foggy asked.

“Yes,” Matt answered.

“Then, I will.”

*****

“Hey, Matt,” Foggy whispered. It was one am. He knew Matt was awake. He could hear him squeezing the stress ball, although this time it sounded like he was just fidgeting with it rather than trying to squish it to death.

“What?” His voice was groggy, okay, so maybe he had only been half-awake.

“I wrote you a list.”

“What kind of list?”

“It’s called the five tenets of a bad ward. Do you want me to read them to you?”

Matt groaned. “The lights don’t sound like they’re on and I would have heard you writing. You aren’t even holding a piece of paper. And there already is a list called the five tenets of a good ward I don’t need you to read them to me, I know what they are.”

“Show off, but you weren’t listening. I didn’t say the five tenets of a good ward. I said the five tenets of a bad ward.” Foggy flicked on a lamp and grabbed a random piece of paper from the floor, shaking it for emphasis. “There. The light is on, I have a paper in my hand. I’m going to read them to you.”

“Foggy.” Matt pulled a pillow over his head.

“You can hear through walls. I don’t think goose down is going to help you. Okay, ready? I want you to repeat after me: I’m awesome.”

Matt came back out from under the pillow. “You’re awesome? What kind of list did you say is this?” he laughed.

“Play along, please? Repeat after me: I, as in you, am awesome.”

“Fine,” Matt sighed, “I’m awesome.”

“Good. Next one: I don’t have to repeat this list out loud if I don’t want to.”

Matt laughed again. “Okay.”

“That’s it?” Foggy asked when Matt didn’t repeat.

“I’m a fast learner. Read me the rest of your list.”

“Foggy is never going to use correction tools to hurt me, and he will never send me back to the Centre, sell my lease, or rent me out.” Foggy watched Matt closely, he was as still as stone. “Matt?”

“Keep going.”

“I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do.” Foggy waited a beat to give Matt a chance to repeat it if he wanted to, apparently he didn’t, so he went on. “If I want or need something I will not hesitate to ask for it. I will let Foggy know if he is doing something I don’t like, or if he wants me to do something I don’t want to do. I am the best at picking out good vendor sandwiches and it is my solemn duty to bring Foggy fresh sandwiches.”

“Really, you’re making that one of my official tenets? It’s my solemn duty to bring Foggy fresh sandwiches?”

“You bet your ass I am. Do you know how often I choose the sandwiches with mold on them?” Foggy chuckled.

“Oh. Right, like last Tuesday.” Matt yawned and nodded. “Yeah, okay then. Fresh sandwiches, got it. I can save you from food poisoning.”

“Ready for the rest?”

“You said five tenets and you’re already at seven. How many are there?”

“Just a few more. This one is very important. I promise to do everything in my power to suck at being a good ward.”

This time Matt repeated it. “I promise to do everything in my power to suck at being a good ward,” he said resolutely.

Foggy grinned. “I don’t have to accept what the bastards at the Centre did to me. I won’t be obedient or submissive.”

Matt rolled over and lay on his back. He repeated what Foggy said again. “I don’t have to accept what the bastards at the Centre did to me. I won’t be obedient or submissive.”

Foggy continued, “I won’t be silent. I will express my opinion when I feel like it.”

“I won’t be silent. I will express my opinion when I feel like it.”

“I don’t give a shit about being productive.”

Matt repeated, “I don’t give a shit about being productive.”

Foggy said, “I deserve nice things.”

Matt fumbled a bit on that one, but he said it. “I deserve nice things.”

“I deserve to be treated with respect.”

Matt cleared his throat and he said clearly. “I deserve to be treated with respect.”

They were quiet for a while. Foggy turned off his light again and stared into the dark until his eyes adjusted and he could start making out shapes in the dark.

“Matt, are you still awake?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to make me a list, too.”

Matt made a kind of hmm noise. “Does this fall into the category of stuff I don’t have to do?”

“Everything falls into that category.” Foggy insisted.

“Then I’ll think about it. Goodnight, Foggy.”

 


	17. Throwaway

Matt was working at his desk, using his slate and stylus. Relearning the skill of using a slate and stylus had been the most difficult part of Braille to readjust to; having to make the switch between thinking the cell as he would read it and indenting the cell in reverse so that he could refer to his notes later. Practice helped. It was only through repetition that he would get as comfortable with it as he’d been back in high school.

Every day, when the school day was over, he listened to the lectures he had recorded and played them back to transcribe them into note form, taking his time to do things right.

Even if… If this didn’t last, he was determined to make the most of his time right now, enjoying the opportunity Foggy was giving him.

He wouldn’t let himself think about going back to the way things were. The contemplation of it left him feeling numb inside and out.

He couldn’t go through that again.

_He knew it could happen. The freedom he had now was an illusion that could be snatched away at a moment’s notice._

He couldn’t believe how easily everyone around him took their independence for granted. He remembered what it had been like to be one of them, oblivious to how fortunate he was to be in control of his life, being able to make decisions without having to ask permission or to worry what anyone else would want you to do.

Being with Foggy wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t freedom. Matt couldn’t forget he was dependent on Foggy for everything.

No list was going to make up for the fact that he legally had no rights. Just because Foggy didn’t get him to wear the corrective collar other than when necessary, it did not mean that he’d forgotten the anxiety of being at the mercy whoever wielded the remote. No amount of positive reinforcement could change the fact that the Centre could do whatever they wanted. They’d implanted a device into his back without even telling him what it was, what else would they be willing to do?

Matt finished working on the paper and unclamped it from the slate. He flipped it over and ran his fingers over the Braille.

Finding the tape dispenser on Foggy’s desk was a challenge. Foggy’s idea of order was… you could say Foggy wasn’t exactly a neat freak. However, to Matt’s surprise, he was making an effort by keeping the floor clear and shoving everything into the corners or under the bed. It took only a brief pat over of Foggy’s desk to find what he needed, and he ripped off four small pieces of tape and stuck them to his fingers.

Matt took his paper and lay down in his bed. He ran his hand along the wall, feeling for a proper height and angle as he held the paper in place and taped the edges. He lay on his side and ran his fingers along the lines of cells again.

_I promise to do everything in my power to suck at being a good ward._

_I don’t have to accept what the bastards at the Centre did to me; I don’t have to be obedient or submissive._

_I will not be silent. I will express my opinions._

_I don’t give a shit about being productive._

_I deserve nice things._

_I deserve to be treated with respect._

A list wouldn’t change his status as a ward, but it might help him change what he thought of himself. It might help him break from the conditioned paralysis and remember who he’d been before the Centre tore him apart. It could be a start in recovering some of who he once was.

*****

_I will not be silent._

They had worked out the details beforehand, and Matt had made the final decision on how the evening would progress. Few people. No recording. No photos.

The audience would be hand-picked by the president of the abolitionist society, and he was assured that everyone there would be supportive.

He couldn’t say he wasn’t nervous. He’d barely eaten half a sandwich for dinner, and even that small amount of food had him feeling nauseated to the point of kneeling over the toilet and emptying his stomach.

The meeting would begin in an hour, and Foggy was crouched beside him rubbing circles into the small of his back.

“You don’t need to do this tonight if you don’t want to. You can wait until you feel better about it,” Foggy suggested.

“I’m not ever going to feel better about it, Foggy,” Matt coughed and spat again into the toilet bowl.

“You can wait until you’re ready.”

“I can’t wait that long.” 

*****

_I will not be silent._

Matt stood off to the side. He felt out of place wearing clean, stylish clothes. He felt less vulnerable now that he had new sunglasses providing a reassuring barrier between himself and curious onlookers. Thank you, Foggy. The only thing that set him out of place with anyone else in the room was the ID bracelet under his sleeve.

He had spent four years wearing scratchy cotton service uniforms, recommended by the Centre. Even the wards on campus wore the same style of outfit. He hated those uniforms, but he couldn’t help but feel self-conscious wearing anything else. The clothes he had now were soft and comfortable, but they were only a disguise. He was passing as something he no longer had the right to be, and pretended to be someone he wasn’t.

No one here was fooled, they all knew what he was. They were all here for the same thing. They wanted to know what it was like to be the first ward attending Columbia University.

An inner voice screamed at him to run away. They weren’t here because they cared about what he had to say. They were here to see a spectacle. They were here to see a novelty performance. What the hell had he been thinking when he agreed to this?

He was scared.

He would talk to them, tell them his story. This was his chance to challenge the system that tore his life apart. He could make a difference. 

But would any of them listen?

He fidgeted with the cuff of his sleeve as Foggy introduced him. “Matt has chosen to speak to you tonight, and he has my complete support. Any questions you have can wait until after he’s done talking. Thanks.” Foggy walked back to where Matt was standing by the wall and tapped his arm.

He was acutely aware of everything in the room. Too much so. They had chosen a small conference room in the basement of the hall. It was out of the way, more likely to be uninterrupted. From the quantity and staleness of the dust in the air, he could tell the space was rarely disturbed. There had been more who wanted to come, but for Matt’s peace of mind, they’d agreed ten were enough. There were two rows of five metal stacking chairs, all of them occupied.

His classmates from the European History class were there; Dylan, Steven and the girl, Matt now knew her name was Tara. Their attendance was possibly a reward for having arranged the meeting. The other seven attendees were older; three women, and four men. One had a pacemaker. Another was a smoker by the smell, long term by the labored sound of the air filtering through his lungs. Scents of various perfumes and colognes swirled in the air with a hint of alcohol on someone’s breath. He heard the scratch of pencil on paper as someone jotted down notes in the second row, whether it was about him or something unrelated, he didn’t know.

“I’d rather not be recorded,” Matt started. There was no elevation of blood pressure or heartbeats. Good. He heard no electronic buzz of recording devices. 

No more stalling. He took a deep breath and focused on listening to Foggy’s heartbeat. He concentrated on filtering out the cacophony of sensory information coming from everyone else, pushing it down far enough that it became no more than a background hum.

“Before I became a part of the system, I didn’t know much about the Centre other than what you hear on the news,” he started. “I knew they helped people: people who would otherwise be homeless or hungry, people who might not be capable of taking care of themselves. I knew they took the burden of non-violent criminals off the overcrowded prison system. I assumed, like most people do, that what they were doing was justified, that it was right. I didn’t know anything.

“I still don’t know more than what I’ve experienced directly.

“I was seventeen. I’d never been in trouble with the law. I had just graduated from high school with honors. I’d received my acceptance letter to the undergraduate program here at Columbia University. I had scholarships. I had a plan for my future. That was four years ago.” Matt heard Foggy’s heartbeat elevate in sympathy.

“I lost everything. As an orphan, I was already dependent on the state, and because of a funding technicality, that dependency transferred to the Centre-care housing facility for the disabled when I left the orphanage. They assigned me to a special-needs facility. It was a mistake, all I ever wanted was my independence. I decided to leave; I had more than enough money saved to rent a room somewhere else, and I would have been fine. But they wouldn’t let me go. For my own, protection they said.

“They sent me to the Centre to be held in custody. No one would talk to me; no one told me what was going on. I thought it was temporary. I thought they’d let me out in time for school, and I could put the experience behind me. That didn’t happen. School started, and I was still there, and I was angry, and I was stupid. I shouldn’t have... shouldn’t have broken the law. I should have stayed and found a way to make them listen. Eventually, someone would have heard. They couldn’t have kept me there forever, but I was seventeen, and I was being held against my will. I tried to escape.

“A guard got hurt, and I got arrested and charged with criminal endangerment. I was technically already dependent on the Centre, and the Judge ruled that I should serve my sentence and then have my status revert to Centre-Care indefinitely.”

Matt paused. He felt nauseous again. The room felt like it was slowly turning and he gripped his white cane tighter to stay grounded. He heard Foggy shift slightly to his left, ready to come to his rescue if need be. “I hear over and over again that I must have done something to deserve this.” He stopped again and took a deep breath; his hand ached from the grip he had on his cane. “No one deserves to have their future taken away from them.

“You wanted to know my point of view as a ward attending university. Four years ago, when I was supposed to begin school, I was sent to conditional training instead.” He held up his wrist, showing his ID bracelet. “They took my name and replaced it with a number. Every lesson they teach is a step towards subjugation and dehumanization. They teach the five tenets and make you repeat it until the words become your thoughts. Acceptance, productivity, silence, appreciation, contentment.

“I learned to accept that I had no control over anything that happened to me. I learned that I was only worth as much as I could be productive. I learned that if I asked questions, I would be punished. I learned to be thankful for even the barest human dignity. And I learned no matter how bad things get, they can always get worse.

“As a ward who is also a student, I’m not allowed to have a voice. I must sit at the back of the room. I must not ask questions. I must show my ID bracelet to use the library or the cafeteria, and I’m aware that I may be refused service anywhere at any time, for any reason. I am a student in name only.”

Matt stopped. Foggy took a step forward and stood beside him, and Matt was acutely aware of what Foggy was holding in his hand. Foggy was holding up the collar. Matt’s collar. They’d planned this; it wasn’t a surprise. He knew it was a conditioned response, that he wasn’t in any actual danger of being shocked; but that didn’t stop the skin on the back of his neck prickling with dread.

Foggy started talking, “Before we get to questions, I have one more thing I need to add. This is Matt’s collar. He wore it for four years straight, and he still has to wear it at night. There’s no better symbol for the Centre’s intentional dehumanization of wards than this. It’s modeled after a shock collar used on animals. Even the lowest settings can cause burns and scarring.

“But, hey, the Centre says it’s humane, right? Who wants to try it?” Foggy asked.

Dylan stood up. “I’ll try.”

Matt had known this was going to happen right from the start. That didn’t make it any easier to endure.

Foggy placed the metal prongs against Dylan’s wrist and instructed him to hold it in place.

“Not the neck?” Dylan asked.

Foggy shook his head. “No. You’ll see why.”

Matt tried to relax. He was the one who had insisted it wasn’t going around anyone’s neck, but still, he had to fight to remain still and not put a stop to the demonstration. He knew everyone could see how tense he was, but he couldn’t help it.

Foggy showed Dylan the remote, showed him that it was on the lowest setting available, then he showed it to everyone else in the room.

Matt’s chest felt tight. He held his breath.

_Matt had been studying when he heard the top drawer of Foggy’s dresser slide open. He heard Foggy pull out the corrective collar and the remote._

_He froze. Any thought he’d had on doing his homework halted immediately. His entire focus zeroed in on what was happening behind him. Foggy was turning on the collar._

_The hair on the back of Matt’s neck stood up as he heard the hum of the charger turning on. Foggy had promised never to use it on him. What changed? Everything had seemed okay. Foggy didn’t seem angry about anything. Foggy wouldn’t… but, yet, he was... He flinched when he heard the buzz of the electric discharge and Foggy’s resulting yelp of pain. What the..._

_Foggy must have seen him flinch. “Oh shit, that didn’t hurt you, did it?” he asked._

_Matt had to catch his breath. He had felt the electric pulse of the discharge through the air, but it hadn’t hurt him. “No. No I’m fine. Just. The sound.” He could smell… he could smell heat and the burn… and Foggy had cried out. Matt felt sick, but still, he found the strength to ask the obvious, “What are you doing?”_

_Foggy did it again. The sudden buzz as electricity discharged through the metal prongs and Matt reflexively jumped again as Foggy swore. “Holy shit. The second time is even worse.”_

_Matt was up and out of his chair, snatching the collar and the remote out of Foggy’s hands and throwing them both back into the dresser drawer where they belonged as fast as he could._

_“Don’t,” he snapped, “Don’t ever do that to yourself.”_

_He wasn’t thinking. Obviously. He’d never spoken like that to Foggy before. He shouldn’t have._

_But Foggy backed down, and he didn’t seem upset or angry at him either. “I’m fine. I’m fine,” Foggy reassured him, rubbing at his neck where he’d shocked himself with the corrective collar, but still trying to sound chill, probably for Matt’s sake. “I wanted to know what it feels like. Holy shit, Matt. That’s harsh.”_

_“I know,” Matt’s voice was tight with strain, his hands curled into fists to keep himself from shaking, all his senses focused on the action of the collar on Foggy’s skin. “Just… Don’t do that again.”_

_Foggy didn’t. Not to himself at least._

Foggy activated the remote. Even though he knew it was coming, Matt flinched as Dylan jumped and let out a surprised yelp.

“That was the lowest setting,” Foggy explained. “Imagine having the threat of being shocked like that around your neck at all times, locked in place and unable to be removed. It is not humane.”

Dylan handed the collar back to Foggy before returning to his seat, and Foggy turned off the remote and put both items in a bag on the floor. He brought a couple of chairs up, and Matt took a seat on one and Foggy on the other.

“Matt has agreed to answer some questions. Remember, he has the right to choose whether or not to answer whatever he wants. He has the right to say no.” Foggy paused for emphasis. Matt suspected it was for his benefit as much as for the audience. “Okay. Go ahead.”

“What kind of work did you do in your previous placements?”

Matt cleared his throat, still feeling slightly on edge from Foggy’s shock collar demonstration. Foggy had wanted to do it before he spoke, but it was for this exact reason Matt insisted it to be after. He took a deep breath to remind himself everything was okay before speaking. “Laundry.”

He felt the air swirl beside him as Foggy pointed out the next question. This time, it was for Foggy.

“What made you decide to choose Matthew as a ward? There had to be other options, what made you pick someone with a disability?”

“Matt’s seeing impairment has nothing to do with his ability to succeed as a student,” Foggy answered bluntly. He pointed to the next hand that went up.

The attention shifted back to Matt. “When we looked up your online profile, it said you have an implant. What did you do?” He recognized Steven’s voice.

“I escaped from my placement. Three times.”

“But you got caught. You’re blind, how far did you think you could get?” Steven pressed.

“Farther than you’d think,” Matt answered. He considered whether or not to say more and decided not to. 

“Does it hurt? Having something in your back like that?” the girl, Tara, asked.

“I can feel it.”

“Have you tried escaping since then?”

“No. I’ve—”

Foggy interrupted. “It’s called an immobilizer for a reason. They implanted a device into his back with a filament going directly into the spine, which disrupts the entire nervous system when activated. How would you expect him to try and escape with that inside him?”

Matt suppressed a shiver. Even weeks later, his back still felt stiff from the after effects of the implant being activated.

Foggy called the next question.

The voice sounded older. Likely a professor. “Can you clear up for us what took place in Professor Wiebe’s office?”

“I didn’t want—”

“Don’t answer that,” Foggy cut him off. “Professor Wiebe attempted to manipulate a situation to have Matt kicked out of school. The incident is being dealt with. Next question.”

Matt reached over and brushed his fingers against Foggy’s arm as a thank you for putting a stop to the question. 

“Matthew, if you were pardoned from your detainment right now, what would you do?”

“I’d want to stay in school,” Matt answered quickly. “As a real student.”

Foggy motioned to the next hand that was up.

“Are you afraid there might be backlash from the Centre for speaking out like this?” A woman asked. She was older than the rest, the one with the pacemaker.

Foggy’s placed his hand on Matt’s shoulder. They both answered at the same time.

“Yes.”

*****

_“You know he’s not doing you any favors, don’t you?”_

Matt had known Lynn wanted to speak to him from the tension in her voice when she asked him her daily, “Is it good?” as she scooped his food onto his plate.

As they were leaving to go back to the dorm before classes started, he overheard her ask her supervisor to use the restroom. He told Foggy to go ahead and stopped in the hall to wait for her to catch up. 

“Who isn’t doing me favors?”

“Your supervisor.” She hissed and dragged him down the hall a little further. “I heard about the _speech_ you gave the other night. One of the professors there has a personal assistant who overheard her discussing it.”

“By personal assistant you mean a ward, don’t you? Why would an abolitionist have a ward?”

“Why does your _Foggy_ have you?” she asked.

“Fine. So she was discussing it, you haven’t told me what’s wrong with that.”

“Can’t you see what’s happening? They’re grooming you.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“They’ve had you so isolated you have no clue about how any of this works. Haven’t you wondered why you’re here? Why anyone would take a throwaway out of the Centre—”

“I’m not a throwaway.”

“You’re a blind untrained laborer, how productive can you be? Tell me I’m wrong. What kind of work did they have you do in your last placement?”

“I wasn’t, it was a personal lease. But I can— I _have_ worked,” Matt insisted.

“Doing what?”

“Laundry,” Matt admitted. “I was in a factory for two years. I can work.” But even as he said it, he knew there was truth to what she was saying. He hadn’t even been worth enough for to keep around to do laundry. He hadn’t been worth anything at the church, and then after that…. He was a throwaway. 

“You’re a throwaway,” Lynn insisted. “But you’re exactly what the abolitionists are looking for. You have a beautiful face, a good voice, and a tragic past. They’ll give you an education, dress you up so you look just like anyone else. They’ll treat you nice, and you’ll be so grateful you’ll do anything for them. They’ll take you around and show you off, tell you what to say and how to say it. The pity you’ll earn will be incredible. When the Centre finds out what you’re doing, what do you think they are going to do to you? Do you think any of your new friends here are going to lift a finger to help you?”

“That’s not what’s happening,” Matt argued.

“It will be fun while it lasts, but it’s not going to be forever. We’re just commodities to them. Do you think your _Foggy_ is going to protect you when the Centre comes to collect?”

“What do you have against him? He protected _you_ when you got attacked.”

“And I appreciate it, but I don’t for a second believe he did it out of good will. He’s a supervisor. His job is to manipulate us. That’s what they do, and just look at yourself. He’s already got you so tied up in knots, you would do anything for him.” Lynn sighed. “I’ve been gone too long already. Be careful. Please.”

Matt headed back to his room to pick up his backpack.

She was wrong.

Foggy was already gone when he got there. Matt leaned over his bed and traced his fingers over the Braille paper he had taped to the wall one more time before leaving for class.

 

 


	18. Murdock

They took the bus on Sunday morning, leaving early from the University towards Penn Station. The trip out to Westfield where Mrs. Beaty lived wasn’t too complicated, but complicated enough not to be pleasant. 

The bus was hot and the air was thick despite the chill outside. The brief influx of cool air that breezed in with the entrance and exit of passengers was a welcome relief. Beside him, Matt felt Foggy’s muscles tense up as they entered Hell’s Kitchen. Foggy had been providing a steady stream of descriptions but had trailed off as they got closer, lost in thought.

“My parents’ hardware store and apartment are about three blocks away from here,” he started up again after a while, speaking lower.

Matt had grown up in roughly the same neighborhood, and he wondered if their paths had ever crossed and what they would have thought of each other back then.

“Have you been back here? Since the Centre?” Foggy asked.

“Once,” Matt answered, but didn’t elaborate. 

“We could visit,” Foggy offered. “It’s not far.” However, he didn’t sound enthusiastic about it. Instead, he went back to pointing out different landmarks, asking Matt if he remembered them. 

“No way.” Foggy turned in his seat as they passed the intersection. “The old Grandma Donut Bakery is gone. We used to go there on weekends.”

“I remember that bakery.” It had been a Hell’s Kitchen landmark, and he remembered it from even before losing his sight. Even if he’d been born blind, he would have known the place by the smell of fresh donuts coming from the building every morning. “What’s there now?”

“I don’t even know how to describe it to you. It’s just a massive black glass block. Offices and condos. The kind that are getting built everywhere. Do you remember what it used to look like?”

“It was an old brick building, right?”

“Yeah.”

“They used to hang flowerpots out in the summer. A big green awning and the front window usually had something painted on it.” The memory was dim. He tried to recall more details about what it looked like, but that wasn’t how his mind processed the world anymore, and his thoughts kept slipping back into the more familiar territory of sounds and scents. “It smelled like a mix of chocolate and baking bread, and they played old pop music in the kitchen. They were nice.” 

“They were. I wonder what happened to them.” 

“They were getting older,” Matt mused. “Everything changes.” Maybe they were bought out, maybe they had retired. Maybe they had died. The world wasn’t fair. Matt leaned slightly against Foggy as the bus turned the corner, swaying gently with the motion. 

“Foggy.” Matt paused and considered the question he was about to ask. It wasn’t good to ask questions, if Foggy wanted him to know, he would have already told him. But that was... that was not how Foggy wanted him to think anymore. That wasn’t how Matt wanted to think. This was Foggy, Foggy wouldn’t get upset at him for asking a question. He knew that.

Foggy wanted him to act and think as a free person, as his friend, not as a ward, but old habits were hard to forget, especially when they had been drummed into your head with punishments. He still had to force himself to speak, “You said you haven’t had Christmas with your parents since before I met you in the hospital.” It was fine. It wasn’t even a question. _You can ask questions. You must ask questions._

What he really wanted to ask was “ _where have you been”,_ because it was getting more and more obvious Foggy had been away from New York for quite some time. Foggy spoke about the time he’s spent in the hospital where he met Matt, but he never talked about anything after that. Where had he been? Why hadn’t he been back home in the meantime? 

“Foggy, where have you been?” 

“We’re getting close to Penn Station.” Foggy didn’t even try to pretend to answer, and Matt heard the increased stress in Foggy’s voice. He hadn’t rebuked Matt for asking, but if this was how Foggy was saying no, Matt wasn’t going to press any further.

It wasn’t because he was afraid of getting punished, he knew Foggy wouldn’t do that to him, but he knew there were things in life you just didn’t want to talk about. He patted his friend’s arm in a silent gesture of support, and stayed quiet until they reached their next stop.

They made their way off the bus and started the short walk to the next transfer at Penn Station. Matt held Foggy’s elbow as they navigated the sidewalk and construction zones. Foggy read out the pedestrian detour signs, directing them across the far intersection before crossing the street. The station was right ahead. 

Matt had never been here before. It sounded busy, even on a Sunday morning, and between the crowd, the surging thrum of electricity powering the trains, conversations, boots, high heeled shoes tapping, halogen lights, the electronic monotone readout of the trains arriving, everything overlapped into an overwhelming cacophony of activity. 

“Your entrance is over there,” Foggy instructed. He listened to Foggy walk through the main doors and stayed attentive to his movements as he found a spot to lean against a pillar while he waited inside. 

The people in line, all wards, were quiet and waiting their turn. They turned to him briefly as he took his spot. He played with the sleeve on his right arm a little, exposing the ID bracelet hidden underneath. He felt out of place, but it was more than just the lack of collar and the nice clothes, which had already earned him more attention than he felt comfortable with.

He’d been out of place at the abolitionist meeting because his status felt like a physical barrier between himself and the free people there. No matter what he said or did, he would never be seen as an equal. Here in line, it wasn’t about status, it was about privilege. Standing beside other wards only made the differences stand out even more.

He was well fed, he was clean. It was obvious he wasn’t a working ward. There was respect in hard work. At the university, at least he had the distinction of being a student. Out in public where no one knew him other than by his status, he’d be seen as nothing more than being kept _. Like a pet._

After only a few months with Foggy and being given privileges he hadn’t had since being forced into the system, he was getting used to being able to think for himself again. He was getting used to the freedom he had with Foggy, and even started to regard himself more along the lines of a free man than a ward. Here, waiting in a controlled access line, he realized he wasn’t, and no matter how nice Foggy was and how many privileges he was given, he would never truly be free.

All his apparent freedoms, thinking for himself, the right to say no, it was all because Foggy _was giving him permission to do so._ In fact, Foggy had ordered him to do so. It was perhaps the strangest and probably the best order ever—but still an order.

Immediately in front of him stood an older man. Matt could smell the bitter tang of the strident soap he’d washed himself with, and he could hear the meager contents of the man’s stomach trying to digest the processed breakfast he’d eaten earlier that morning. The back of the man’s neck radiated heat from infected burn wounds on his skin caused by repeated shocks from the collar he wore. The sickly sweet smell of infection mingled with the reek of dried blood hidden under his clothes.

Matt could sense it—a raised welt across the man’s back scabbed over where the skin had broken open. Matt knew exactly what kind of ‘tool’ caused marks like that. Foggy had one stashed away in the dust covered box under his bed.

The old man stepped up to the guard. Matt listened to the bored disdain in the guard’s voice as she asked for his day pass. The old man passed her a piece of paper and she scanned the barcode and his ID bracelet and waved him though. 

_“Next.”_

Matt presented his right wrist and she scanned his ID. “Day pass,” she said tonelessly. 

“I don’t have one.” Matt hadn’t even been aware such a thing existed.

“Destination?”

“Westfield, New Jersey.”

He thought back to Lynn calling him isolated, and it was true. Aside from his failed escape attempts, he’d never left his placement holdings. Even with Foggy, other than when he’d been picked up from the Market, he’d only ever ventured as far as the university grounds. Probably, if he asked, Foggy would say that he was free to go wherever he wanted.

The University was a safe and familiar place to navigate, but even it held dangers for a ward—a vulnerability that Matt was well aware of since the day he had been assaulted by Axe. Anyone could do anything to him and get away with it. That fact made him much less eager to venture out without Foggy at his side, and other than going to and from classes, he hadn’t spent as much time exploring as he knew he otherwise would have.

“Purpose of your trip?”

“Accompanying my supervisor.”

“He’s with you?”

“Yes.” Fortunately, Foggy had been watching and walked up when he saw the officer was taking a longer time with Matt than she had with the others. 

“Is there a problem?” Foggy asked. 

“Is this your ward?”

“I’m his supervisor.”

“License.” She held out her hand and Foggy dug his wallet out of his back pocket and passed her his card.

“No day pass?”

“I thought that was only needed if he was travelling alone.”

“Passes can be printed off the Centre website with a valid login. It makes the screening go faster,” the guard explained. “Next time make sure he has a day pass, even if you’re with him.” She turned to Matt. “Right arm.” 

He obliged and held out his arm, but he wasn’t sure what she wanted him to do. As free as Foggy allowed him to be, Matt still know how to act properly with anyone else and so he stayed still and waited for instructions. She pulled him slightly forward and positioned his arm flat on the counter, palm up, and pushed up his sleeve. She adjusted his ID bracelet a little bit, pushing it as far as it could go up on his wrist and then held him in place as she pressed a cold square block against his inner wrist. 

There was an electric sound similar to the sound corrective collars made when it powered up and Matt tensed instinctively, suppressing the instinctive reaction to pull away. He cringed inwardly at how out of practice he was at masking his reactions. The quick intake of breath and the sound he made when the device was activated and held in place for a count of three revealed exactly how painful he found it.

Foggy’s heart and breathing sped up, the heat rose in his face, and Matt could sense the tension in his shoulders as he regarded the security agent. Matt wanted to assure him it was okay, that he was okay, but he couldn’t speak out like that in front of a Centre official. 

If Foggy intended to let the abolitionists use him against the Centre, they’d need to be as careful as possible to sustain their ward-supervisor roles in public to avoid unnecessary scrutiny. Matt didn’t think the Centre could actually nullify his lease on the grounds of being treated ‘nicely’ but he knew they wouldn’t hesitate to make life difficult if they suspected Foggy to be actively working against them. 

The security agent didn’t notice Foggy’s agitation. “The tattoo is composed of temporary dye and will be absorbed by the bloodstream over the next couple of days. Have him show it at the next check stop and they’ll pass him through,” she explained to Foggy and waved them on.

The marked area on the underside of Matt’s wrist stung with irritation. Foggy directed him over to a row of benches along the wall and sat down, pulling Matt down beside him so he could take a closer look.

Matt traced the raised flesh with his finger until Foggy brushed his hand away. Matt recognized the design was the Centre logo with today’s date below it. 

“I’m so sorry. I had no idea, Matt. Shit, it looks awful. How does it feel?”

“It’s fine,” Matt lied. “What does it look like?”

“It looks like a tattoo. Uhm, the Centre logo and the date, blue. The area around the ink is kind of red and puffy looking. It looks painful.” Foggy let out a frustrated breath. “There’s really no limits to the stuff they justify doing to you, is there?”

Matt shrugged in response. The surgically implanted device in his back had been Matt’s final clue that nothing was off limits. He pulled down his sleeve to cover the sensitive area. There was nothing either of them could do about it now.

They caught the train to Newark, and Foggy caught Matt’s upper arm as he made his way to the back and guided him into a seat near the middle. 

“Wards are supposed to sit at the back,” Matt reminded him. 

“I know. But no one knows you’re a ward here, Matt.” 

That wasn’t true. There were two wards who’d stood in line with them on the same train, sitting where wards were _supposed_ to be sitting. They knew. 

“I’m with you. We’ll be okay.” Foggy guided Matt to the window seat and Matt tugged his sleeve down even further and held it in place with his fingers to keep his ID bracelet and now the tattoo on his wrist hidden just in case. 

They left Manhattan, heading west towards New Jersey. Foggy was quiet and Matt felt him startle awake several times as he dozed against Matt’s side. The forward motion of the train narrowed Matt’s world to his immediate vicinity, and the undulating motion made him feel dizzy and nauseous. The sound of the wheels rumbling along the tracks echoed so loudly that everything vibrated in a continual blur of chaotic confusion, and the strong odor of spilled alcohol and the lingering scent of old vomit overpowered everything else he might be able to sense. 

But Matt could feel Foggy beside him, breathing slow in his sleep, his heart a steady rhythm Matt willingly lost himself in. Matt listened for their stop to be announced and they transferred to the next train in Newark. Matt subtly choose the seat this time; there were more people and Foggy didn’t argue when Matt led him towards the back.

Mrs. Beaty would meet them at the station to drive them to her house. Matt was nervous. His placement at the church hadn’t been good. He’d thought he’d been lonely at the uniform factory where he’d been ostracized by the other wards. In hindsight, the isolation had been no less than what he deserved for causing the former supervisor, a fair man, to be replaced.

The new supervisor had been far worse, a self-proclaimed scholar of behavioral modification techniques he’d learned in workshops. At least at the factory, Matt had been kept busy. The silence and inactivity of being confined to the small bathroom in the church had been far worse than being ignored. 

But Mrs. Beaty had been kind since the first moment she had met him. She’d never used the correction collar to hurt him, she hadn’t yelled or hit him. She loved to talk, and Matt had enjoyed listening.

He shouldn’t have spoken about his former placement. He hadn’t done it to gain sympathy. He’d told Foggy the story about the yarn bracelets because he knew what he did in Professor Wiebe’s office would change things. He’d been trying to explain to Foggy how much he needed him, how alone he’d been in the past and how much he appreciated the companionship that Foggy provided.

He’d been afraid that what he’d done would make Foggy change his mind about being friends. He couldn’t handle the concept of being alone and confined again. He’d been afraid of disappointing the one person who cared about him, and so he’d told Foggy about Mrs. Beaty, the only other person Matt could think of who’d made him feel less alone. 

And Foggy had assumed he’d been asking for yarn to make bracelets with. 

But things were better now. Foggy hadn’t really been retracting his offer of friendship, and that was what Matt needed to focus on. He needed to be the friend that Foggy wanted. _You are still thinking as a ward,_ he told himself, and maybe he was, but this was something he wanted for himself. He wanted to be a good friend.

Visiting Mrs. Beaty was an inconvenience. Foggy shouldn’t have had to waste a day taking Matt to New Jersey.

He should have asked Foggy to call her back and tell her they couldn’t come. He didn’t even understand why Mrs. Beaty would want to see him. 

_He was a throwaway._

Lynn had been right, Matt wasn’t worth anything, and if Foggy wanted to _groom_ him into a weapon against the Centre, that was what he would become. He could learn the right things to say and how to say them, he could make himself valuable enough that if Centre struck back, he would be worth fighting for. He knew he could be worth something to Foggy if given the chance.

“Tell me about Mrs. Beaty. What do you know about her? We aren’t going to visit some little old lady who will feed us cyanide cookies or anything, are we?”

It took a moment for Matt to reorganize his thoughts. “She’s nice. She likes to talk and to visit. She’s a widow, I mentioned that. Her family passed away a few years back.”

“I guess it’s too much to ask what she looks like.” 

Matt laughed, but tried to translate what he knew about her into words anyway. “She’s short, not thin but not heavy either. She might have originally been from the Boston area, I wouldn’t call it an accent, but she has an inflection to her voice that sounds like other people from there.”

“Are you going to be able to recognize her?” 

“I think so. I know her voice.” He remembered she used to smell like fresh baking. He couldn’t count on recognizing her from that though. 

“So we just hope she’s talking to herself when we arrive. Good plan,” Foggy joked.

“She’ll recognize me,” Matt assured him. 

Maybe she wouldn’t recognize him. He knew he’d gained some weight since being with Foggy. Not a lot, but he could feel the contours of his ribs weren’t as angular as they had been before, and the jeans Foggy had bought him were feeling snug rather than loose around his hips. He hadn’t had glasses back then either, or a cane. He hoped she would see a blind boy and make the connection. 

The luxury of eating fresh food was something he wasn’t going to take for granted any time soon. The taste of salt and grease still reminded him of the ready-made meals they’d fed him at the church. It was a standard routine to feed wards with meal alternatives. They were cheaper than real food, designed to supply adequate daily calories, contained the necessary vitamins to avoid nutritional deficits, and easy to measure as a restrictive diet and yet carefully maintain a state of perpetual hunger.

The arrangement was for Mrs. Beaty to meet them at the bus station on North Avenue, at Elmer Street. Matt had to stand in a security line again to pass the checkpoint and leave the station. The security officer scanned his bracelet, was satisfied with the tattoo on his inner wrist, and allowed him to pass. 

The air smelled different—emptier, and perhaps cleaner, but Matt preferred Manhattan where everything had a distinct odor, adding details to the otherwise stark three dimensional outlines of the world around him. In the relatively plain air, the smell of fresh baking reached him immediately.

“Over there.” He gestured to the right, towards a bench just off the edge of the boardwalk. 

He felt Foggy follow his directions. “How do you know?”

Matt grinned. “She’s baked blueberry muffins.” He probed the stairs with his cane as he walked down beside Foggy and turned towards the older lady on the bench. 

“Mrs. Beaty?” Matt asked as they got closer.

He listened to her heart speed up as she stood. She raised her arms and stepped closer, grasping onto his shoulders and pressing him into a brief hug.

“Matthew.” Her tone was warm and welcoming. She rubbed her hand down his arms and then stepped back. “You look well cared for,” she added and then turned to his companion. “And you must be Foggy.” Her tone changed slightly, lower, guarded. 

Foggy shook her hand. “Mrs. Beaty,” he greeted her. 

She nodded, her posture relaxing. “I made you some muffins, Matthew. I remember how you liked them.” She firmly gripped his hand in hers, her skin cool and weathered. She tugged on his arm gently, leading him toward the parking lot and her car. Foggy trailed after, unbothered at being treated like a third wheel. 

She tried to steer Matt towards the passenger seat, but he resisted. Foggy was here because of him, Matt wasn’t going to make him sit alone, and so they sat together in the back seat. Chemically simulated evergreens devastated Matt’s senses as warm recycled air spewed out of the vents. Thankfully, it was a short drive, and Mrs. Beaty made small talk as she drove, asking about the weather in Manhattan and how things were on the train. 

Matt exited his side of the car and walked around to join Foggy. “It’s cute,” Foggy described the house as Mrs. Beaty walked up the path to unlock the front door. “A little yellow bungalow. There are three garden gnomes in her flowerbed. No flowers though, kind of late in the season.”

They walked up the slightly uneven sidewalk and Matt used his cane to navigate the porch steps, then trailed his fingers along the door frame as he stepped inside. The scent of fresh baking washed over him and he took a deep appreciative breath. It was overwhelming, but in a good, familiar way.

She settled them around the kitchen table and made coffee. “Is Matthew allowed?” she asked Foggy before filling a third mug. Another standard routine: coffee caused anxiety and anxiousness, it had been the subject of a recent documentary on ward behavior and was largely blamed for a recent uprising at a manufacturing plant in Michigan.

“Coffee is fine,” Matt answered for himself. 

Mrs. Beaty hesitated and Matt bit his lip. She had been speaking to Foggy and he shouldn’t have interrupted. It was rude, and as a ward, he should have behaved better than to speak unless spoken to. “It’s good,” Foggy confirmed, smiling. 

She placed the three mugs on the table along with the muffins. The plate was barely set on the table before Matt helped himself and tore off a small piece. He savored the flavor. It was so much better than the mass produced, vacuum sealed muffins available in the cafeteria. The slight huff of a laugh coming from Foggy next to him did not go unnoticed.

“You look like you’re about to inhale it.” 

“I just might,” Matt teased him back.

The chair scraped against the floor as Mrs. Beaty pulled it out to sit down. “It’s so nice to see him eating. Matthew had such a hard time with what they fed him in the church basement. I recall how often he suffered from tummy upsets. You don’t feed him out of meal-tins, do you?”

“No, ma’am,” Foggy answered.

Matt slowed down and took smaller bites. He hadn’t intended to give the impression Foggy wasn’t feeding him adequately. 

“Did you know he has a history of eating disorders? Did they tell you that? Is he eating regularly for you?” 

“I’m well fed,” Matt assured her even as he reached for another muffin. _Eating disorder? No._

Mrs. Beaty seemed a little startled that Matt would speak out of turn again, but when Foggy didn’t scold him, she smiled and patted Matt’s shoulder. “That’s good to hear, Dear.”

She refilled his coffee mug and sat back. “It is so nice to see you again. I was worried what might happen to you. I’m glad you found someone who takes care of you, it makes me feel better about not having been able to buy your lease myself.”

“You were going to buy my lease?” Matt was truly surprised. He knew she’d been fond of him but he never suspected she’d care enough to want to keep him.

“They refused my offer,” she went on. “I’m relieved to see you found a good home despite being listed on that terrible auction site.” 

Matt placed his muffin back down on his plate and shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans to mask how badly he was shaking all of a sudden, a physical manifestation of the burgeoning rage he felt spreading within him. He hadn’t liked Pastor Raymond, but he’d never considered the possibility that the man had deliberately chosen to pass Matt over to those people. But. Mrs. Beaty had wanted to buy him. Had she made the offer before he’d been listed on auction? That was what it sounded like. Why would Pastor Raymond put him up for auction if there’d already been an offer? 

Matt felt the air shift as she turned back to Foggy. “Does he get enough exercise?” she asked next. “Poor boy. They hardly ever let him out of that tiny bathroom they had him locked up in.”

_Three months at the church. Eight months with Them._

_Pastor Raymond had chosen to sell his lease to Them._

The sound of Mrs. Beaty and Foggy discussing his living conditions faded into the background as the rush of his blood through his veins grew louder. 

 _He couldn’t._  

_He couldn’t breathe._

*****

_They picked him up in a van. Matthew remembered kneeling on the floor while his new leaseholders—there were two of them, a man and a woman—signed the papers. Money was exchanged and carefully counted. He’d stood still as the woman walked around him in a slow circle, appraising him, while the man stood farther back, watching._

_“Is he violent?” she asked Pastor Raymond._

_“Not so far,” he answered._

_She stood slightly behind him, and Matthew could feel the warmth of her hand before she touched him and so the sensation shouldn’t have been a surprise, but he flinched anyway as her nail trailed down the side of his neck. The brief movement earned him a slap across the ear._

_She walked around to the front of him. She gripped his chin and tilted his head upwards. Her breath was hot as she leaned in close. Mint gum. She smelled clean and fresh, and yet underneath that was something dark and sour. Blood and fear clung to her like a cloak. “Does he have any sight at all?”_

_“Not that I’m aware.”_

_She made an impatient grunting sound. “Well. Do you? Or are you deaf and dumb as well?”_

_“Nothing. No light perception,” Matthew answered._

_“We’re going to take good care of you,” she said sweetly._

_And the way she said it told Matthew there wasn’t going to be anything good about it at all._

_Her thumb brushed against his eyelid and Matthew squeezed his eyes shut against the invasive pressure. She traced the outline of his lips, making him shiver involuntarily. She laughed and stood up. “You’re right, just as pretty as his picture indicated. He’ll do,” she said to the man behind her._

_She touched his neck, sliding something rough between his skin and the collar and fastening a clip. A nylon rope. He stumbled forward at the first tug and then stood up and fell into step. He tripped on the stairs going up and he felt another sharp pull and struggled to regain his footing. He was led outside, a door slid open and he was pushed into the back of a van. Restraints were fastened around his wrists and attached to a ring on the bare metal floor._

*****

He flinched away from the hand on his shoulder and the world flooded back in a tidal wave of sensations. He couldn’t catch his breath. The touch on his shoulder remained steady, a gentle but firm reassuring pressure that shifted down his back to his shoulder blade, pulling him forward until he felt enveloped in the warmth of Foggy’s arms. His chest hurt as he struggled to breathe, but rather than feeling restrictive, the close contact eased the pressure within. 

“I’ve got you. You’re alright.” 

_Foggy._

He felt the heat and moisture of breath against his neck. Coffee. Muffins. Blueberries. 

“I’m sorry.” Foggy released his hold to turn and address Mrs. Beaty, and the at the sudden absence of his touch Matt started trembling again. Foggy’s hand returned immediately, his hand on Matt’s arm, stroking downward in a slow rhythm, calming him with his presence. 

“Do you mind giving us a minute alone?” Foggy asked Mrs. Beaty.

Matt couldn’t focus further than the fact that she left the kitchen, and he let out a shaky breath. 

Foggy brought his other hand up to the back of Matt’s head and pulled him close as Matt’s entire body threatened to shake apart from the inside out. Foggy was whispering into his ear, a soft litany of, _“It’s okay, let it out,”_ and slowly Matt felt like he could breathe again. The band around his chest eased and the tremors subsided to faint shivers.

“Are you back with me?” Foggy asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“I’m here,” Matt murmured. He felt tired. Exhausted. 

“Do you want to tell me what just happened?”

“No.” He expected Foggy to demand an explanation or pull away, but he didn’t. He was allowed to say no, he remembered. Foggy’s continued to rub circles on his back, the heat radiating from his hand reinforcing Matt’s grip to the world. “I’m sorry.”

“Do you want to go home?” Foggy asked. 

“We can stay. I’m alright,” Matt answered. His focus was slowly returning; he could hear Mrs. Beaty moving things in another room, sorting through boxes. Matt straightened and pulled away first. He ran his hand along the table to find his coffee and took a sip. It was cold.

Foggy left the kitchen to speak with Mrs. Beaty. 

_“Thanks for giving us some space.”_

_“Is he alright?”_

_“Yeah, I think so.”_

_“What’s wrong with him?”_

_“Nothing. We all get overwhelmed sometimes.”_

Matt rubbed at his face with a napkin and straightened his glasses before they returned. He broke off another piece of muffin and pretended to be fine. Foggy moved his chair close enough that their knees were touching, and Matt pressed his leg against him, using Foggy’s presence as an anchor.

Mrs. Beaty moved slowly as she placed a box on the table. “Do you remember the bracelets you used to make?”

Matt nodded. “With the yarn, yes.” 

“I kept them after you were sent away.” Mrs. Beaty said. “I took them with me when I left the church.”

The box shifted as Foggy leaned forward to look inside and Matt sniffed back a sneeze when dust was swept up into the air. Foggy dropped a handful of the small crafts onto the table and began to sort through them.

Mrs. Beaty turned on the oven and pulled a casserole dish out of the refrigerator. “What kind of work are you into, Foggy? Does Matthew work with you?”

“We’re students at Columbia University.”

“That’s nice,” she said pleasantly. “Matthew helps you study?”

“He’s a student, too,” Foggy explained. 

“Hm,” she said. 

Foggy continued exploring the designs on the bracelets in front of him with his fingers and Matt reached out to get a better sense of what was there. When he’d made them, he’d only paid attention to the texture of the thread, the way the textures accented the patterns.

“Can I have one?” Foggy asked.

“Of course,” Mrs. Beaty answered. 

“Matt, do you mind choosing one for me?” Foggy pushed the bracelets over and Matt sorted through them, running his fingers over the patterns to find the one he wanted. 

“This one’s okay?” Matt asked, and Foggy took the bracelet he had chosen from his hand, running his finger over the design. He heard Foggy’s heart speed up slightly. 

“Thank you.” Foggy handed it back to him, “Can you tie it on my wrist?” 

Matt touched Foggy’s hand in front of him and flicked it. “Other one.”

He didn’t want to tie a bracelet on Foggy’s right wrist. The right wrist was for ID bracelets. Foggy obediently shifted and held out his left wrist instead, and Matt tied it. He listened to Foggy run his finger over the pattern again and Matt stilled as he realized. _Foggy knows._ He reached over and felt the pattern one more time, now on Foggy’s wrist, before pulling his hand away.

He heard Mrs. Beaty walk closer and she tsked. “You gave him one of the ones with the little knots in it. Why didn’t you give him one of the nicer ones?” she scolded Matt gently.

“I like this one,” Foggy defended. 

Mrs. Beaty chose another bracelet from the pile and passed it to Foggy. “This one is much nicer. Go ahead and take it,” she pressed it into Foggy’s hand and he pushed it into his pocket. 

Matt reached over for the yarn, and Foggy called out the colors as he touched them but he chose based on texture rather than color, just as he had back at the church. He picked out the two softest threads of the collection. Red and black. He unwound several lengths, biting off the ends out of habit (he hadn’t been allowed to use scissors at the church), and arranged the multiple strands the way he wanted them. 

Mrs. Beaty and Foggy chatted as he worked. and Matt felt more at ease listening than contributing, pleased to discover that just the resonance of Foggy’s voice helped relieve the leftover nervous tension from the panic attack he’d had earlier. Foggy talked about his parents’ hardware store and some of the more interesting customers they’d had over the years. 

“Is that where Matthew works while you’re in school?” she asked. 

“Matt goes to school with me,” Foggy corrected her again. 

She mentioned that lightbulb in her hallway was burnt out and Foggy offered to change it after she explained she didn’t feel comfortable climbing the step ladder anymore. After that, Foggy ended up outside, climbing up on the roof to clean the eavestrough, and then cleaning out and replacing the filter in the furnace.

Mrs. Beaty busied herself with making cookies for dessert, telling Matt stories about her late husband and the attempts he’d made fixing things around the house. By the time Foggy came back inside, the casserole was heated, and Matt had finished his craft. The yarn was placed back into the box and moved to another room, so they could set the table and eat. 

The potato, cheese, and ham casserole was delicious, and afterwards Mrs. Beaty made more coffee and they sat together talking in the living room, snacking on the plate of cookies she had baked. 

“Have you finished your bracelet yet, dear?” she asked Matt.

He’d already tied it around his left wrist and he lifted up his sleeve to show her, and there it was, a zigzag black and red pattern. Mrs. Beaty pulled his arm close to take a better look. “You’ve made little knots in it again.” 

“For decoration,” Matt explained. 

“They’re uneven,” she noted.

“I like how they feel,” Matt said. He felt Foggy lean closer as well.

“Mind if I touch it?” Foggy asked. 

Matt held out his wrist and Foggy ran his finger along the pattern. There it was again, Foggy’s heart sped up before drawing his hand away. _He knew._

“What do you think?” Matt asked, tentatively. Would he be mad? 

“Perfect,” Foggy answered. 

It was already getting dark by the time they left. Mrs. Beaty made Foggy promise to come back with Matthew to visit sometime soon, and Foggy didn’t hesitate to agree. The checkpoint at the station went smoothly and soon they were on a train back to New York. 

They sat near the back and Matt took the window seat, feeling tired and knowing he’d be more likely to fall asleep with Foggy acting as a buffer between him and the rest of the train.

“Murdock,” Foggy said slowly, running his finger once again over the knots on his bracelet. “You inscribed your last name in Braille on the bracelets you made at the church.” 

“Not on all of them,” he replied, quietly.

Foggy reached over and slid his finger under Matt’s left sleeve to feel the bracelet there. “Nelson,” he said. “You put my name on yours.” 

“Friendship bracelets. Because we were friends first.” Matt leaned back against the seat, still with Foggy’s hand on his wrist, and let himself drift asleep.

 


	19. Lies

Matthew remembered how alien it had felt the first time the collar had been locked around his neck during conditional training. 

Cold. Confining. Absolute. Humiliating. 

He remembered how the sound of the locking mechanism snapping into place had been disproportionately loud. When he swallowed, the unfamiliar restriction had made him feel like he was choking. 

He remembered taking it off after stealing the key in his supervisor’s desk. He remembered how his neck had felt exposed and overly sensitive to the cold air. He remembered how good it felt to simply be able to move again without the thick band of metal restricting his movement.

The other wards at the Uniform Supply Factory had blamed Matthew’s final escape attempt for the replacement of their previous supervisor, and so even among dozens of other wards Matthew had been painfully alone.

The new supervisor told him his job was to ensure the compliance and welfare of the wards under his direct care.

Matthew had not only made three escape attempts, he’d stolen the key for his collar and removed it, he’d attacked his former supervisor. He had a history of disobedience and violence. 

_It is my job to reform you._

The demonstration of what the immobilizer implant could do had been only the first step. The new supervisor was determined that no ward under his control would pose a threat to his welfare or career aspirations, especially not a blind kid barely old enough to call himself an adult. 

“I have a kid your age,” the supervisor told Matthew, as Matthew knelt in the corner of the supervisor’s office reciting the tenets. “I think I’d kill myself if I were your father.” 

Matthew stumbled on his words resulting in a quick shock of the collar. _“Acceptance, productivity, silence, appreciation, and contentment. A good ward is obedient and submissive. A good ward works tirelessly and is worth only as much as he produces. A good ward is a quiet and efficient worker. A good ward is thankful for having his welfare managed. A good ward does not complain. Acceptance, productivity, silence, appreciation, and contentment. A good ward...”_

The supervisor laughed to himself and took a sip out of the glass bottle of whiskey he had tucked away in his drawer. “Good thing your folks are already dead.” 

Matthew continued, _“Acceptance, productivity, silence, appreciation, and contentment. A good ward is obedient and submissive.”_ The supervisor was right. At least his dad would never see what a failure his son had become. 

“This is why kids need a strong hand and proper parental supervision. My kid thought he had it rough cause I was hard on him. But you won’t ever see him collared like a damn animal, I’ll tell you that.” He stood up and walked up to stand so close his shoes were only an inch away from Matthews knees. 

“ _A good ward works tirelessly and is worth only as much as he produces. A good ward is a quiet and efficient worker.”_  

Matthew felt the air displacement as the supervisor leaned forward and cringed as the man’s thumb and forefinger gripped the back of his neck. “If you ever try and take this damn collar off again, I will rip your fingernails out, one by one.” 

The supervisor’s hand went from the back of his neck to something metallic in his pocket. He crouched down and took Matt’s hand. “Don’t stop. Keep reciting your tenets.” 

“ _A good ward is thankful for having his welfare managed. A good ward does not complain.”_ Matthew focused on the words and not on the cold metal against his left index finger. He focused on the words and not on the compression and the tug at the edge of his nail. “ _Acceptance, productivity, silence, appreciation, and contentment.”_ He focused on the words and not…

He didn’t do it.

_He didn’t do it._

The supervisor dropped his hand, stood up, and walked back to his desk. Matthew heard the pliers drop onto the wooden surface. 

 _“Thank you,”_ Matthew dared to whisper between the tenets. _“Thank you, thank you.”_

“Keep reciting the tenets,” the supervisor said, but this time his voice was softer. _Kind?_ “You’re lucky to have me as your supervisor. I’ve studied at the Ludovico behavioral institute, I know what I’m doing.” 

*****

And now, Matt sat on his bed, fully dressed, his backpack ready for the day’s classes, waiting for Foggy. 

They’d already missed breakfast. Matt plucked at the seam of his pocket considering what to do next. Foggy had never given him directions on what to do if he slept in. The obvious answer was, of course, to wake him. Feeling nervous, he knelt beside Foggy’s bed and gently shook his ankle. 

“Foggy.”

He was rewarded with an incoherent grunt. 

“Foggy. Get up. You’re going to miss class,” Matt urged. 

Foggy finally shifted and rolled over. “Whatimesit?” 

“Eight-thirty.” 

Foggy only groaned and sighed. “I’m going to sleep just a bit longer. Share your notes with me later?”

“Sure.” He took a deep breath. “Are you going to remove my collar today?” he asked, careful to modulate his voice so that he did not sound expectant or demanding or worse, desperate to have that damn thing off. 

It was ridiculous, really, he’d worn the collar for four years without having it removed at all. He just wasn’t used to it anymore. What would it matter if he wore it for a day? 

Foggy rolled onto his side. “They key’s in the drawer. Go ahead and take it off by yourself.” He mumbled, his words barely understandable.

“Please, Foggy.” He couldn’t. He wasn’t allowed to do that.

“Use the key, Matt.”

Did Foggy think Matt didn’t know that? 

_It wasn’t that he didn’t want to._

So far, Foggy had never asked Matt to put on or remove the collar on his own, and it hadn’t been an issue. Matt hadn’t even known there was an issue until he tried. He stood in front of Foggy’s dresser, opened the top drawer, reached inside, and… He didn’t know what was wrong with him. He couldn’t do it; his hand began to shake, sweat broke out on the back of his neck, just the thought of touching the key had left him shaky and unsettled. 

“Foggy, please,” Matt asked again. 

“Right. Sorry,” Foggy mumbled and pushed himself up and reached into the drawer for the key. He sat with his legs over the side of the bed and sighed. “Come sit down in front of me.” 

It was an odd request but Matt didn’t hesitate to lower himself down with his back against Foggy’s knees. The key scraped slightly against the metal before sliding into the slot, turned, and Foggy’s hands wrapped around the metal and gently pulled it open. 

As Foggy’s fingers brushed up against the skin of his neck, Matt momentarily froze from the feel of unexpected and abnormally intense heat emanating from Foggy’s skin. He should have noticed it earlier, he would have noticed if he been paying attention to anything other than his own anxiety. 

Instead of putting the collar back in the drawer, Foggy put it instead on his nightstand and rolled back over onto his side and under the covers. 

“You’re sick,” Matt stated. He climbed up onto the bed beside Foggy and berated himself for being unobservant. How long had Foggy been sick for? He’d been tired on the bus to New Jersey, could he have even been sick since then?

Matt had been left feeling off balance since the visit with Mrs. Beaty, the resurgence of bad memories and wayward emotions wreaking havoc in his mind, and he’d been focused on not letting himself dwell too deeply on any of it, to stay present in the here and now. He hadn’t been paying attention to Foggy, and now Foggy was sick.

His job, aside from being Foggy’s friend, was to take care of him, and he’d utterly failed. “Do we have a thermometer?” 

Foggy grumbled. “In the first aid kit.” 

In the bathroom under the sink. Matt brought it back and opened it on his desk. It felt like a standard first aid kit. Mainly bandages and packets of what Matt assumed to be alcohol wipes. He found what he was looking for in the side pocket. It was a plastic digital thermometer. He ran his finger along it, found a button just under a little flat glass screen and pressed it. There was a beep but no audio read out. He brought it over to Foggy. “Open your mouth,” he instructed.

Foggy picked it out of his hand, and he heard the end knocking against his teeth. Thirty seconds and it beeped three times. Foggy pulled it out and looked at it. 

“What does it say?” Matt asked.

“I’m fine,” Foggy answered. 

That wasn’t fair. Matt couldn’t read it, but he knew for a fact that Foggy was running a temperature. He could feel it radiating through the air now that he was paying attention. “What does it say?”

“Ninety nine point one.” Foggy answered. 

 _Liar._  

“It isn’t.” Matt snatched the thermometer out of Foggy’s hand and, out of frustration, slammed it down on the nightstand, where it thankfully did not break. He winced against his own outburst.

“I’ll be fine,” Foggy insisted, completely ignoring Matt’s show of temper. “Go to class before you’re late and they lock the door.”

That, at least, was the truth. The professor hated having students wander into the room after the lecture had begun and tended to lock his door at the five minute mark. He could still make it on time if he hurried. “I’ll come back to check on you between classes,” he promised.

*****

Matt wanted to bring Foggy soup. That’s what you do for someone who is sick, you get them soup. 

Lynn was on her own in the cafeteria during the calm between breakfast and lunch, while they were preparing the meals. Matt could smell pizza and spaghetti being prepared. 

“Do you have any chicken soup? Maybe something you could heat up?” Matt asked, grateful for the absence of Lynn’s supervisor. Technically, he wasn’t allowed to ask for something off the daily menu, but with Lynn he felt it was safe enough to bend the rules a little.

She wordlessly walked over to the fridge, looking inside, moving stuff. “Chicken vegetable?” 

“Yes, that’s great. Thank you.” 

She pulled out two take away Styrofoam bowls. 

“Just one,” Matt corrected her. 

She paused. “How did you know I was pulling out two containers?”

“Because I usually order two? But, I only need one this time.” Matt covered for himself. He was being reckless and not paying close attention to what he was saying. He needed to be more careful; Lynn already knew too much about him, and she wasn’t stupid. 

“Is it for you or for your supervisor?” she asked, and whatever she saw on his face apparently answered her question. “I didn’t see you at breakfast. Have you eaten?”

He sighed. He wasn’t hungry, and he held his tongue before snapping out that, if she had noticed his absence, she should have notice Foggy had missed breakfast as well. He just needed the soup for Foggy. “I’m fine. Can I have the soup?” 

“He didn’t put you on a meal restriction, did he?” 

“No,” he answered, more roughly than he had intended, and pulled out his expense card. She rang him through. 

*****

Foggy was still in bed and snoring lightly when Matt got back into the room. He placed the soup on Foggy’s desk and knelt beside the bed again, touching his forehead gently despite the fact the heat coming off from him was painfully obvious. 

This wasn’t flu; he knew the smells and the sounds of the flu intimately from growing up in close proximity to the other children at St. Agnes. When one of the little kids got sick, everyone got sick. Yes. Matt knew the flu. And this wasn’t flu. 

Foggy wasn’t stuffed up, his breathing wasn’t restricted. It wasn’t a cold.

He placed his hand lightly on Foggy’s back, feeling the rise and fall of his ribs, the expansion of his diaphragm and the vibration of his lungs. Nothing abnormal. His heart beat felt slightly fast, but not alarmingly so. There was no infection, no wounds that Matt could discern, no scent of blood. 

But he knew there was something. He felt as though the room dropped five degrees in temperature when it suddenly became clear, Foggy had been sick when he met him. 

It didn’t have to be that, though. It was probably just a virus. Foggy would be fine.

He wouldn’t have done it if Foggy was awake, but he leaned in closer, so close to Foggy’s face, and breathed in. 

 _That’s it_. Matt didn’t know the right word for it. 

He couldn’t always explain how he knew the things he knew or how his mind mapped out the world around him, but everything had a distinct scent, and he only needed to smell something once to identify it again in the future. This scent was something he recognized from years ago, back from his placement in the hospital. 

 _No_. _Please. No._

He rocked back on his heels and placed his hand on Foggy’s nightstand for support. He withdrew suddenly when his fingers brushed against the edge of his collar still resting there and as he pulled away a small notebook fell on the floor. It wasn’t his intention, but he couldn’t help but feel the indent of a ballpoint pen on the page when he picked it up. Numbers? _103.1?_ He sat down and examined it more closely, running his finger slowly across the page. Today’s date, the time only a couple hours ago. 

_103.1_

Was that Foggy’s temperature this morning?

He skipped back a page, desperately looking for something, for anything that could reassure him, that could tell him he was wrong. More dates. An address Matt didn’t recognize. Appointment reminders? 

The sound of fabric shifting as Foggy moved, the change in heart rate, breathing, all these signals alerted him that Foggy was waking up. Matt could have put the notebook back on the nightstand and pretended not to have seen it. But he didn’t. Foggy opened his eyes and sat up, he casually plucked the notebook out of Matt’s hand and placed it back where it had fallen from. 

“How was class?” Foggy’s voice was low and thick. Tired.

“I brought you soup,” Matt said. He placed his hand on Foggy’s knee and pushed himself up onto the bed beside him. He needed to make sure. He reached over and wrapped his arms tightly around Foggy’s back, holding him close and pressing his face into the soft skin of Foggy’s neck. He drew in a deep breath and then rested his head briefly on Foggy’s shoulder, before pulling away.

“Matt?”

“Yes, Foggy?”

“Did you—did you just sniff me?” Foggy asked.

“Yes,” Matt admitted, Foggy didn’t seem angry, and so he continued despite how uneasy he felt about initiating a confrontation. “You temperature this morning was one hundred and three.”

Foggy’s hair brushed against his shoulders as he turned to look at the notebook on his nightstand. “How do you know that?” 

“I read your notebook.”

“How?”

“By feeling the indents of the pen on the page.”

“Since when have you been able to do that?”

“I could before. I just needed to relearn how it felt.”

“That’s really cool.” Foggy rubbed at his face. “Does this mean I don’t have to read my notes out to you anymore?”

“Don’t change the subject. You’ve been keeping track of your health for a week now. You’ve had doctor appointments.” Matt stood up, feeling the need to move, to pace. 

“Matt,” he started but didn’t continue.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Matt asked, unable to restrain himself anymore. “You’re sick again, like you were in the hospital. I can _smell_ it, Foggy. It’s the same. Have you started treatment?”

“Matt, slow down. I’m fine.” He could sense Foggy standing up and reaching for him, but he stepped away to avoid his touch.

“You’re not fine. Have your doctors talked about what they are going to do? You almost died last time. I thought you _were_ dead.” 

“First of all, _I am fine_ , and even if I wasn’t fine, I’d make sure you’d be safe.” 

Wait. Was Foggy really thinking he was only worried about his own security?

“This isn’t about me.” Matt stopped backing away only after coming up against his own desk and grasped the edge to prevent his hands from shaking. Matt knew his emotions showed clearly on his face, and so he turned away to prevent Foggy from seeing exactly how deeply this was hurting him. “This is about you. How long have you been hiding this?” 

“Will you listen?” Foggy grabbed Matt’s arm, pulling him around so that he was facing him. Matt resisted weakly, but Foggy tightened his grip and Matt reactively surrendered. His back dug into the edge of his desk and Matt stood frozen, unable to even consider pulling himself free. He fought to keep his breathing under control and resist being pulling under by darker associations. 

Whatever Foggy saw in his expression had him letting go and backing away immediately.

Foggy’s voice was softer as he continued. “I’m not lying to you. I am not sick. This is something else, and we’ll discuss it later, but right now you need to go to your next class. You told me you can tell when someone is lying, right?”

“Yes.”

“Am I lying?”

Matt listened carefully. “Tell me again.”

“Matt, I don’t have cancer.” 

“You aren’t lying.” Matt admitted. But he wasn’t a lie detector. He could sense things, hear things that gave him clues to how a person was feeling, but he couldn’t read minds. 

Matt felt numb. Foggy wasn’t lying, but Matt also knew he wasn’t wrong about Foggy being sick, and none of it made any sense at all. “You will tell me everything,” Matt insisted and hoped it didn’t sound too much like an order. 

“I will. I promise.” 

He stepped past Foggy and picked up his backpack. As he headed to the door he tapped his finger against the container of soup on Foggy’s desk. “Don’t forget to eat your soup.”

“Thank you.” Foggy said. 

Matt walked out, he was already late for his next class. 

 


	20. Worth

Matt didn’t go back to their dorm at lunch. He wasn’t ready.

The weather was cool, but not cold, the wind light. A sweater was all that was needed to keep warm. He bought a fresh sandwich from the vender and played with the edges of the plastic wrap for a while before slowly unwrapping it. The moment he unwound the last layer, the smell struck him with almost physical force. 

There was an empty bench to the side of the sidewalk in the shade of an old elm tree, but he passed it by in favor of a spot he found a little further out on the grass where it would be easier to go unnoticed.

He took small bites, enjoying the sounds and listening to the world around him, until one particular conversation caught his notice. A student in front of the steps of the library a block away was soliciting for signatures on the petition he was promoting: _For the safety and wellbeing of students and faculty, make corrective collars mandatory for all wards on campus._

He overheard enough of the same sentiment to not be interested in hearing it again. Matt moved to sit beside the fountain after that, close enough to the pounding water to drown out the distant voices. He focused on the spray, on how the structure lit up in a blaze of echoes as the droplets exploded as they hit the standing pool of water. It was beautiful.

If he let himself, he would go back to their room and apologize for getting upset. Foggy was within his rights to keep his silence, and Matt had no right to demand anything from him.

He wanted to be with Foggy so bad it hurt, and that alone was a really good reason to stay away. 

The ID tag on his right wrist was a constant reminder of his status in the world. On his left wrist, he wore the yarn bracelet with Foggy’s last name sewn into the stitching in Braille, he ran his finger over it again to remind himself that Foggy wore the same on his left wrist, with the name Matt had once used to identify himself with. Murdock. The name might not belong to him anymore, not legally, but a piece of paper didn’t make him any less his father’s son. 

If they were friends, like Foggy insisted they were, then he wanted Foggy to remember that Matt had been someone with a name before they met at the hospital. Matt wanted Foggy to know that he hadn’t always been this way, that he’d once had his own life and his own dreams. 

Matt hated being afraid, but there were so many things to be afraid of. He wasn’t afraid of Foggy, but he was terrified of losing him.

His stomach ached from forcing a confrontation earlier, at how angry he’d been when he had thought Foggy was lying to him. 

He was worried. Worried about Foggy, and yes, worried about himself and what would happen to him if Foggy were sick. As much as Foggy promised to try and protect him, a supervisor didn’t hold the ultimate authority over a ward’s well-being. His lease belonged to someone else, and, ultimately, the Centre managed his lease. If Foggy was sick, they wouldn’t be able to continue school, but that wasn’t his main problem, not right now. 

Would he be allowed to stay with Foggy and take care of him? Would he be sent to continue his placement with Ms. Sharpe, or would he be placed on auction? 

Still, Foggy had assured him he wasn’t sick, and maybe Foggy wasn’t technically lying, but he wasn’t telling the truth either.

Matt didn’t want to be angry at Foggy. 

_A good ward is obedient and submissive._

Matt shuddered and immediately redirected his thoughts. 

 _I deserve to be treated with respect._  

“I deserve to be treated with respect,” he whispered, reinforcing the thought out loud. He whispered it again, his voice too low for anyone else to overhear.

He deserved an explanation. If Foggy was sick, it affected Matt as well. As Foggy’s friend, he deserved an explanation.

It was okay to be angry. It was valid. Foggy had lied and hidden something important that affected them both. He had kept a secret. 

Matt went to his afternoon classes, thankful to have the voice recorder with him to record the lectures he couldn’t concentrate on, and then headed to the study hall. He showed his ID as he entered, always aware that he could be turned away on a whim. It had happened often back in September, when school first started, but less now that the staff were getting used to him.

He organized his notes for the day, deliberately taking his time, delaying the inevitable. He didn’t believe in good news anymore. Foggy wanted him to believe that he was safe now, that the worst of the Centre was behind him, but Matt knew better. Even when he’d thought it couldn’t get worse, he had been shown there were always new and terrible ways to be hurt. 

He couldn’t bring himself to trust that anything good could last. 

There would always be another Professor Wiebe waiting around the corner with accusations, a classmate claiming that an uncollared ward caused her to suffer anxiety attacks, a petition, a psychologist ready to teach Foggy how to act like a professional supervisor. 

He knew Columbia wouldn’t last forever, and the more he considered it, the more convinced he felt that Lynn had been right about nearly everything. He was a pawn. An experiment. There was a game to be played, and Matt was determined to be ready and prepared to play it for as long as he could. 

But, what about Foggy? Was Foggy a part of that game? 

No. He couldn’t be.

Everything Matt had observed about Foggy told him that Foggy’s intentions were honest. Lynn was wrong about Foggy. She didn’t know him as well as Matt did, and he wasn’t going to let Foggy get hurt by the machinations of those in control. He wasn’t going to let anyone take him away from Foggy without a fight, but he needed to convince Foggy that they could be a united front first. 

He put away his slate and stylus and took out a blank piece of paper and a pen. 

Gripping the pen felt uncomfortable and alien to his fingers. Writing, or rather printing, wasn’t a skill he was particularly adept at, and he hadn’t taken the time to practice it since starting University. He knew the letters, of course; how they felt and how they looked like from before he lost his sight. Making the link between the shape he knew it should be, and actually forming that shape on the paper in the right place was a challenge.

It took several tries, each time tracing his finger over the indents he’d made. It wasn’t good enough, either the letters overlapped, or the line went crooked. He pulled out his slate again and used it as a ruler, carefully tracing a line horizontally across the page with the stylus that wouldn’t be seen but that he could feel. He made three lines, and then he tried again. It was better. At least it was straight.

Good enough?

It would be legible. He hoped. He folded up the paper and tucked it into his pocket. Then he made his way back. 

Foggy was up. The scent of illness lingered, though it was now overlaid with the stronger smells of recent shampoo and soap. Foggy had showered in the last few hours, gotten dressed, and at the moment he was working at his desk. Heat still radiated from his body more intensely than it should, but it was less than it had been that morning. 

Foggy said, “Hi,” and Matt replied, “Hi,” tucking his backpack under his desk. 

“I wasn’t sure when you’d be back,” Foggy said. 

Matt stilled, tense. “You thought I’d try and leave?” he consciously avoided using the words escape or run. He didn’t ever want to make Foggy think that he might _run_ , not even if sometimes he still wanted to. He wanted Foggy to trust him.

“No, I know you can’t. I mean, I just assumed you were still mad at me from earlier and blowing off some steam.” 

“Is that okay?” he asked before he could bite his tongue and stop himself. He was glad Foggy didn’t have the same kind of hearing he did, otherwise they’d both go deaf from how loud his heart was pounding.

He had to stop second guessing himself. It was just so hard to reach past what the last four years had turned him into. He didn’t want to be that person anymore. He wanted to be different, but no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t erase what the Centre had done to him.

“Yeah, Matt. It’s fine,” Foggy answered, both his voice and heartbeat quiet. 

Matt sat down. “There’s something I want to give you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the paper he’d written earlier. He held it out and waited for Foggy to take it. 

Foggy was quiet for a minute. “You made me a list? _Foggy and Matt’s Tenets_ ,” he said slowly. “You made _us_ a list,” he amended.

“I started with only two things. The two most important ones. I can add more if you want.” He waited a moment while Foggy looked at it. “We can both add to it. Is the printing okay?.”

“The printing is great.” Foggy stared at the paper for a long moment and then read aloud,

 _“Foggy and Matt’s Tenets:_  
_First tenet: we are stronger together.  
Second tenet: we will take care of each other.”_

Matt cleared his throat. “I want to help you, Foggy. I know it’s been pretty one-sided so far, I’ve needed a lot of help, and sometimes I still need it. I wasn’t exactly what you were hoping for when you found me, was I? I appreciate what you’re doing, helping me become who you want me to be.”

“Matt,” Foggy interrupted.

“Wait, let me finish. You take care of me, but it can go both ways. You don’t always have to be the one helping me, I can help you, too. I _want_ to help you. With this and with anything else you want or need. I mean in a way that is more than you being my supervisor, if you give me an order I am legally obligated to obey, but you already know that.”

“Yeah. I know that, Matt.”

Matt nodded. “Of course. But, I mean, as a friend. I’m here. I want to help you.” 

“Thank you,” Foggy said.

Matt let out a quick breath. “Okay, good.”

Foggy placed the paper on his desk. “I’m sorry for scaring you.” He paused for a moment. “So.” He stopped again. “I’m not supposed to talk about it. But you told me your secret, it’s only fair I tell you mine. I was part of a research project.” 

Foggy let out a breath as though he’d been holding it in for a long time, and maybe that was a little like what telling his secret felt like. “Three years ago, when things got really bad for me, Rosalind made arrangements to have me included in a special project. They saved my life.”

“And that’s where you’ve been,” Matt said. 

“I was one of five patients. We were all terminal, we were all beyond the help of standard medicine. Uhm, at first we all responded positively to the treatment, but it didn’t last, there were complications. It wasn’t... none of us were expected to survive for long. But I did.”

“They cured you?” 

“Yes, I’ve been free from cancer for over two years now.”

Matt stayed silent, waiting for Foggy to continue. Foggy’s heart was racing, his breathing was fast.

“They wouldn’t let me leave,” Foggy continued. “There was a contract. Rosalind had power of attorney.”

“A contract?” Matt couldn’t hold back the dismay he felt. “Like a lease?”

“No, of course not. It’s not like she accepted money to have her dying son sent to take part in an experimental treatment, just a sizeable finder’s fee,” Foggy confirmed sarcastically.

“Your mother sold you?”

“Birth-mother,” Foggy corrected. “In her defense, she didn’t think I’d live long enough to find out,” he laughed, but his heart pounded as furiously as it had been before, exposing his inner turmoil. 

“What about your parents?”

“I don’t know. It’s not exactly something we talk about, but my dad would have had to sign something.”

“Why are you sick now? Has the treatment stopped working?” 

“It’s a retrovirus. They need to study how my immune system responds to different levels of threat and extract samples. They’ll do their tests and I’ll be fine.”

“But you said your lease was over. Three years. You’re free.”

Foggy sighed. “I’m getting paid. And it’s not like I’m being kept in a facility anymore. It’s not a big deal. Every six months, I’ll spend a weekend at a clinic. It’s a fair trade for what I’m getting out of it.”

Matt wanted to shake him. Literally. He clenched his fists instead. “Foggy, you just said they experimented on you for three years, that you’re free now, and you went ahead and made another contract with them? You’ve sold them the right to keep experimenting on you? How can you be okay with this?”

“I needed the money, Matt.”

“For what? University? Normal people get student loans.”

“Student loans don’t cover everything.”

“But, Foggy, you have everything. What more do you want?” Matt asked out of exasperation. He had to make Foggy understand, nothing was worth trading his freedom for. Why couldn’t he understand this? 

Foggy slammed his hand down on the desk angrily and Matt forced himself to stay still and stand his ground. “You don’t understand,” Foggy said bitterly, echoing Matt’s own thoughts. “What we have here, this is what makes everything worth it.”

“It’s just like a lease, can’t you see that?” Matt finally yelled. “Isn’t it enough that you’ve seen what’s been done to me? How could you do that to yourself? Nothing is worth that.”

“You’re worth it, Matt,” Foggy replied. 

“Me?” It was with a sense of horror that Matt caught on to what Foggy was implying. “No. Ms. Sharpe is my leaseholder. Her name is on my registration papers.”

“We have an arrangement. They wouldn’t approve my application, but Rosalind already has leased wards, she has a relationship with the Centre. I needed her name on the registration papers or this wouldn’t have worked. But it’s just her name, Matt. That’s all. “

“You are paying for my lease. That’s why you are doing this? For my lease, for my tuition? That’s not—”

“It’s enough to cover what we need,” Foggy stated.

Everything Matt had assumed was wrong. 

It was Foggy, all Foggy. There was no agenda, no game. Just Foggy. Unless Foggy had an agenda of his own, a game of his own. But he didn’t _. Matt would know_. 

_Matt didn’t know what to think anymore._

“How long? How long is the contract you signed up for?” 

“Five years.”

Matt couldn’t even bring himself to speak. _Five years._

“The research group rented lab space at a clinic in Midtown, and I’ll be staying there over Thanksgiving weekend as an inpatient. I made arrangements for you to stay with Mrs. Beaty while I’m away.”

“No, absolutely not,” Matt fought. Whether Foggy was his supervisor or leaseholder, and Matt was his ward or his friend, he wanted to stay with him. 

“It’s not up for debate, Matt,” Foggy sighed. “I’m not leaving you alone here. Mrs. Beaty asked me if I’d be willing to let you visit with her over the holiday. It’s the perfect solution.”

“I’m not a _pet_ to be lent out,” Matt snapped, feeling his anger rising to the surface again. 

“But you trust her, don’t you? I already spoke to her about your curfew, and she agreed not to make you wear the collar during the day.”

“No. Stop. Just stop, this isn’t about that.” Matt paced. “You’re the one who told me it’s okay to say no to you. Are you taking that back?”

“Of course I’m not. But, this is different.” 

“It’s not different.” No stress ball was going to be enough to help him get his out-of-control feelings back in check this time. It was too much to take in all at once.

“Matt. I’m trying to do what’s best for you.”

“No.” Matt took a deep breath. He felt like he was spinning and couldn’t stop. “What are the rules now? You keep telling me you want to be my friend, but you’ve been lying to me this whole time about the terms of my lease agreement. You didn’t even bother to ask me before deciding how and where I have to spend the holiday. That isn’t how friends are supposed to treat each other, but it’s exactly how leaseholders treat their wards.”

“Matt—” 

“May I go for a walk and get some fresh air? Please,” Matt asked desperately. 

“Yes.” 

“Thank you, Foggy.” He took off his glasses, and pulled on a hooded sweater, pulling the hood low over his head. 

“Matt...” Foggy started saying, but Matt had already walked out the door. He listened to Foggy finish his sentence as he ran down the stairs. _Be careful._

 


	21. Get Back Up

He shouldn’t have walked out. At least, he’d asked for permission. If he continued pushing the limits like this, eventually he was going to get pushed back. He would deserve it if Foggy finally did pull the dust covered box of correctional tools out from under his bed.

The sun was close to setting, and Matt could feel the coolness of the evening air on his skin grow even cooler in the long shadows cast by the buildings around him. He ran, carefully steering clear of well-lit areas and anyone who might see him. The secondary paths around the dorm were the safest route for him to follow, taking him across campus to Riverside Park; the green space stretching out along the Hudson River. 

Back when he lived in the orphanage, when he was free, he used to go running almost every day. He knew the layout of the sidewalks and back lanes. He’d picked his way across Hell’s Kitchen, forging his path up fire escapes, across rooftops, and through alleys. He’d liked testing his boundaries using the skills Stick taught him, well out of the watchful eye of the pedestrians below. The rooftops had been his playground where he practiced the advanced body dynamic moves that he enjoyed the most.

It was exhilarating to push his limits again. Anger and frustration melted away as he lost himself in physical exertion. The farther he got from the University, the more he tested his endurance, savoring the burn in his muscles and the ache in his lungs. 

The air grew colder as the evening progressed. 

He passed an empty skate park and paused there for a moment. It was deserted, and he was alone. He mapped out the terrain in his head and climbed one of the ramps with an easy lunge, jumped off the end towards the rail, spun and landed perfectly. He jumped again, this time from the rail to a spine and flipped down into the bowl below. He took a run along the edge and spun a kick, landing on one foot and then jumping off just to spin again. 

This was freedom. 

He sprinted up the ramp, towards the rail, meaning to vault off and flip backwards. He extended his back in preparation for the move and felt a twinge in his spine. Shit. The implant. A stabbing pain ran up his back, sharp as a knife. His foot missed the edge of the metal bar, and he hit the ground on his side. 

He lied there for a moment, slowly catching his breath, then started to laugh. So, that hadn’t gone as planned, but he was fine. 

He should have remembered the implant would restrict his movement. He could always feel it there, pressing against his vertebrae. The side of his face hurt where he had hit the pavement. His face was bleeding, he could feel the warm liquid sliding down his cheek and around his ear, and when he took a deep breath he felt the tightness running from his spine to his sternum. 

But he was all right. 

This kind of pain felt good. It was familiar, comforting. It took him back to when he’d been training with Stick, and all the bruises and hurts had a meaning behind them, they had a purpose, they made him stronger. 

 _It doesn’t matter how many times you fall so long as you get back up again._  

Nothing else in the world could ever truly belong to him, but tonight he was running and jumping, and he owned it. 

Carefully, Matt levered himself up off the ground and stretched to test the extent of his injuries. His side felt stiff and bruised, but his face had stopped bleeding fairly quickly. It was time to go back; the pent up rage had dissipated. 

Matt would go back to their room, and argue rationally and sensibly that Foggy needed him by his side, and that accompanying him to the clinic would be in the best interest for them both. He felt confident, and ran his finger along the weaved bracelet on his left wrist, feeling the name _Nelson_. If he didn’t stop fondling the thing, the knots in the pattern were going to be worn out by the end of the month. 

Foggy would choose friendship over ownership, and Matt felt like an idiot for having doubted it. The dust covered box of correctional tools would remain forgotten, (by Foggy at least) under Foggy’s bed.

The hallway was empty as he made his way back up to their room. The door was unlocked, and he let himself in. 

“Where have you been? Holy shit, what happened to you?” Foggy jumped up, and Matt took an involuntary step back before stopping himself. 

He wasn’t going to let the past four years rule him, he didn’t have to be that person any more. Foggy’s hand squeezed his shoulder gently, steering him around to sit on the bed before going to the bathroom to get their first aid kit. And then Foggy came back and knelt in front of him. 

Foggy knelt down in front of him and gently eased the hood off Matt’s head, tilting his chin to take a closer look at the damage. 

“Did someone do this to you?” Foggy asked as he opened a packet of sterile wipes to dab at the abrasion beside Matt’s eye and on his cheek.

“No, I fell.” 

“You tripped?”

“No. It was... I moved wrong while I was jumping off a ramp onto a rail and my foot slipped. It was a stupid mistake.” 

“What were you doing?” Foggy asked. 

“Mm, parkour, sort of.” 

“No way. Seriously? That’s, really awesome!” and Foggy wasn’t even lying. Matt hadn’t expected so much enthusiasm. “Will you show me what you can do?” 

Matt nodded. 

Foggy paused what he was doing for a second before continuing. “We need to talk about what you said earlier. About our friendship.”

All the confidence Matt had felt previously, suddenly crumbled into dust. “I’m sorry I was disrespectful to you.” 

“No. No, geez Matt, give me some credit and stop thinking our friendship is something I’m going to abandon every time something happens.” He finished cleaning the blood off Matt’s face and tossed the used wipes into the garbage. “And there I go telling you what you should think. That’s part of the problem, isn’t it?

“I have to stop doing that. You don’t have to be respectful to me. I mean, we should be respectful to each other, right, but as friends, you know. There is a difference. I don’t want you not to say something because you’re afraid of me. Never. But after what you’ve been through, I shouldn’t expect you to be able to trust me.”

“I do trust you,” Matt responded. How could Foggy think otherwise? 

“Okay, but, maybe, I need to do a better job of proving it to you, don’t I? You said earlier that you’ve been trying to be the person I want you to be, that it’s your job to be my friend. Is that really what you think I want?”

“You don’t?” Matt winced as Foggy dabbed at a cut near his eye.

“I only want you to be _you_.”

 _Oh, but, that wasn’t even an option._ “But I don’t want that, Foggy.” 

“Why not?” 

“Foggy, I can’t. I’m not who I was. I’m not even who I was when we met at the hospital.” Matt was overwhelmed again, feeling constantly off balance with his emotions. For four years he’d survived by suppressing everything he felt, keeping everything bottled in and hiding as much of his true self as he possibly could. Now that he could express himself it was as if he’d forgotten how.

“I don’t like this,” Matt continued. “I don’t like what I am. I never used to be scared.” He felt Foggy’s hands rest on his back, and the comforting warmth radiated through him. “I want to be different. I want to be the person you see when you look at me.” 

“Matt, I’m sorry.” 

“I can’t lose you,” Matt whispered. 

“You won’t,” Foggy promised and placed his hands on Matt’s knees. “And I’m sorry about earlier; you were right,” he said. “I should have talked to you first about what to do over Thanksgiving.” 

“Let me come with you to the clinic.” Matt had barely let him finish his sentence before speaking. “I belong with you.”

“Are you sure?” Foggy asked. “It’s going to suck.”

“Let me take care of you.”

“They won’t let you come with me when they do the tests. I don’t even know if you’ll be allowed in my room with me. They’ll probably make you stay in the residence with their staff-wards.”

“I’ll be there for you if you need me.”

“They’ll treat you like a ward.” 

“I am a ward, Foggy.” 

“You know what I mean.” 

“I know,” Matt replied. “I can handle it, Foggy.”

“I’ll make the arrangements,” Foggy promised. “Are you hurt anywhere else?” 

“Just bruises.” Matt pulled off the hoodie and his shirt and showed Foggy his side. Foggy went to their mini-fridge and pulled out a cold pack, wrapped it in a towel, and passed it to him.

“Are you okay?” Foggy asked, and what Matt heard was, ‘Are _we_ okay?’

“Yes.”

 


	22. Just Breathe

It wasn’t the same as the facility. It wasn’t. 

The Facility had been silence, stainless steel, glass and metal, cold dark marble floors and no windows. 

Here at the clinic in Midtown, the floors were white and they shined glossy in the reflected fluorescent lights. There were large windows and sunlight. Of course it had been ridiculous to assume the rented clinic would be similar to the facility Foggy had been kept in, as though the researchers were only capable of working with florescent lighting and stainless steel. 

Why would he assume that? 

Linda was waiting for him in the Lobby. He should have known she would be here. She’d been his ‘health advisor’ for the duration of his stay in the Facility.

Foggy felt Matt’s fingers squeeze his arm, and he realized he’d stopped moving. Linda wasn’t scary, she was just a middle-aged woman assigned to manage his physical and mental health. She wasn’t the boogeyman. She was just an employee following orders. 

It wasn’t personal. 

This wasn’t the Facility. It wouldn’t be the same. It was only for four days. He could do this. He was doing it for Matt. 

But that wasn’t entirely true either, if Foggy was being brutally honest with himself. He needed Matt more than Matt needed him. 

“Linda.” Foggy kept his voice light and friendly, as though he were greeting an old friend.

She smiled and stepped forward, and Foggy tensed as she opened her arms in expectation of a hug. He pulled away from Matt to hug her back. “It’s so good to see you, my dear,” she said with a voice full of artificial sweetness. He felt cold where she placed her hand on his shoulder. “So I hear you’re in university?”

He didn’t want to tell her anything about his life and what he was doing now. “Yes,” he answered. “Linda, this is my ward, Matthew.” 

Linda turned her gaze to Matt, assessing him with a thorough look. “So he’s blind, that’s interesting. Congenital?”

“No,” Foggy answered. 

“If there’s time, I can have Dr. Wall take a look at him.”

“No. You don’t have my consent to examine him.” Foggy didn’t want her touching Matt; he didn’t want her or anyone else associated with Myria Enterprises paying him any attention at all. 

“We are all very excited to see you again. Let’s get started. Follow me.” She walked down the hall and toward the back of the building. “We’ll get your ward settled in, and then I’ll take you to prep.”

“If it’s okay, I’d like him to stay with me.” 

She stopped and turned. “The arrangements are already made.” Her voice left no room for argument. “We talked about this, Foggy.”

“Sorry,” Foggy answered.

She nodded curtly and continued down a flight of stairs. “You’re just fortunate the clinic has a ward-residence program for patients. Of course, the cost of sheltering your ward is charged separately.”

“Of course.” Foggy had expected as much. 

At the bottom of the steps, there was a desk. She stopped there and handed Foggy a clipboard with a pre-prepared form attached. “They require your signature on the release form.” 

Foggy took a moment to read it over. He couldn’t go through with it, not like this. He couldn’t just hand Matt over to a stranger, no matter how much Matt had insisted he would be okay. Foggy shouldn’t have brought Matt anywhere near the clinic or the doctors involved in Foggy’s contract. 

“Matt. I’m going to call Mrs. Beaty and have you stay with her instead.” 

Linda was watching. Assessing. Judging. 

And fuck. Foggy didn’t want her to know how much Matt meant to him. He wanted Matt as far away from this place and these people as possible.

Matt knelt down and lowered his head. “Please, Foggy. May I stay with you?” 

“Don’t do this.” Foggy wanted to cry. Fuck. Fuck Matt, and the Centre and the whole justice system and Myria Research and every fucking person involved. This was not the time to have a nervous breakdown.

“Please,” Matt said again.

“Okay.” Foggy hated himself for putting Matt in a position where he felt he needed to beg. “I’m going to read out the conditions of the release form so that you understand what is required while you are here. If you change your mind after that, it isn’t too late to make the call. You don’t need to stay here.”

Matt stayed on his knees and waited. 

“Matthew,” Foggy said. It felt weird calling him Matthew, but he couldn’t bring himself to call him Matt, not like this. “Stand up.” 

“Klein Clinic is granted temporary supervision rights of _ward ID # here_.” Foggy wrote in Matt’s ID number, 3A6H9N, and continued. “Klein Clinic will provide adequate nutrition and lodging for the duration of supervision upon the discretion of the resident supervisor. All wards under Klein Clinic supervision must wear a Centre approved correctional collar during the term of their lodging.

“Klein Clinic reserves the right to assign appropriate work tasks to all wards under supervision; productivity assessments and compensation for all work completed will be evaluated upon retrieval. Klein Clinic supervisors reserve the right to use justifiable and humane discipline measures on all wards under their supervision. Klein Clinic is not responsible for any injuries or illnesses in regards to wards under their care.

“I acknowledge that I have instructed my ward to obey Klein Clinic supervisors and Clinic rules and regulations.”

Matt nodded. “I understand.” 

Foggy’s hand shook as he signed the release form. He then filled out the subsequent information. 

 _Centre Identification: 3A6H9N (Matthew)_  
Status: Centre dependant state-ward  
Mandatory Conditions: Y/N, Curfew, immobilizer implant. Activation Code 7943   
Discipline issues: None  
Other: Disabled, seeing impaired. 

Linda pressed a call button, and they waited. The security door behind the desk opened, and a man walked out, tool belt of correctional devices on his hip. Rod, baton, tethers, and universal remote all clearly displayed. 

He walked up to Foggy and they shook hands. He introduced himself as Justin. Before even looking at Matthew he picked up the clipboard and read through the release form. He signed the bottom and then turned back to Foggy.

“Personal or corporate lease?”

“Personal,” Foggy answered.

“Any special considerations I should be aware of?”

“No.” Foggy wanted to tell him a lot of things, but Matt had specifically warned Foggy that any indication of special treatment would be met with hostility. 

Justin nodded. “Let’s start the initial inspection then. This way.” He led them through the door into the residence unit and then through a side door into what looked like a small exam room. 

How horrible was it that Foggy’s first impression was that it didn’t seem so bad because the hallway was clean and didn’t smell terrible? What the hell was he doing? How could Matt possibly choose this over having Thanksgiving dinner with Mrs. Beaty?

He felt Matt lightly brush his hand across Foggy’s back. Was Matt seriously trying to comfort him while he was casually passing Matt off to be supervised by strangers for a weekend? 

Justin pulled a cardboard box from the shelf and removed a plastic wrapped package and tossed the empty box on the floor at Matt’s feet. “Place your clothing in there. Everything, including underwear, socks, and shoes.” 

Matt began removing his clothing like it was nothing he hadn’t done before. That was probably true, and Foggy hated to think of all the times Matt had to endure this kind of bullshit. 

Matt placed his sunglasses carefully on top of his folded clothes and waited. 

The scars were noted. Some of the scars had faded into nothing more than thin, barely noticeable lines while others stood out stark and white against the already pale skin. 

The bruising from Matt’s recent fall was still evident, a mottled purple and yellow pattern on his ribs. It was lighter than it had been the first couple days after the accident, but it was still painfully obvious. Justin documented the injury on the inspection form. 

Linda stepped forward and examined the current bruising. “You certainly didn’t choose the cream of the crop, did you?” she mused. “What do you use him for?”

He didn’t answer her. Matt had nothing to do with Foggy’s contract with Myria Research Institute; he didn’t have to tell her anything. 

Linda didn’t seem deterred from offering commentary, nonetheless. “What are you doing with all the money we’re paying you? You could have at least splurged for something a little less damaged.” She stepped in front of Matt and stared at his eyes. “Corneal scarring?” she asked. 

Foggy refused to answer, and Matt stood silent. 

She touched Matts wrist, guiding his arm up and ran her fingers along the circular scars left behind from his previous placement. Matt was not only naked, but it was also as though his entire history was written on his skin for all to see. 

“Are you done with the inspection?” Foggy asked. Justin passed him the clipboard, and Foggy signed his name at the bottom. He wasted no time taking plastic wrapped package from him and tearing it open. Underwear, pants and a t-shirt.

“You can get dressed now.” Foggy passed him the clothing, underwear and pants first. 

“Thank you,” Matt answered. Foggy gave him the shirt next, holding it in such a way that Matt wouldn’t have to run his fingers along the collar to figure out what side was the front.

“All wards are required to wear their collars on the premises,” Justin reminded Foggy. 

Foggy pulled Matt’s collar out of his backpack, ignoring Justin’s waiting hand, and placed it on Matt’s neck himself. He let his hand brush Matt’s shoulder briefly as he turned around.

Foggy handed Justin Matt’s remote. That was it. Justin led Matt away, and Foggy knew he’d made a terrible mistake. He shouldn’t have let Matt convince him this was a good idea. 

*****

Linda cleared her throat, and Foggy refocused his attention. It was time to start prep. Linda led him back upstairs and into an exam room. The procedure he followed was similar to the one they’d just performed with Matt downstairs. He was asked to place his clothing in a box, she handed him a patient gown to change into, and she started her preliminary assessment. There were questions, any injuries or illnesses since leaving the facility? Medications? 

Foggy suspected part of the questioning was a test. There’d been stipulations in the contract. He wasn’t allowed to see another physician other than in an emergency. He wasn’t allowed to take any unapproved medications, not even Tylenol.

In any case, he’d been careful to follow the contract to the letter. He couldn’t afford to screw this up.

Linda told him to sit while she took his blood pressure and temperature and marked it on the chart. She inserted the IV port into the vein on the back of his hand. “Let’s move along then, shall we?” She brought him to the lab. 

This, he recognized all too well. A lot of it was the same equipment from the Facility. He wondered how much of a hassle it had been to bring everything with them. To the side of the room was the exam chair. Fuck. Why would they bring that? 

Foggy sat down. He ran his finger lightly over the indent at the edge of the vinyl armrest where he’d dug his thumbnail into it the first time he’d received his treatments. 

The gears whirred to life as the chair was adjusted and Foggy was slowly lowered into a lying position.

It was only for four days. None of this was anything he hadn’t been through before. This time, at least, he knew when it was going to end. Four days. He thought about Matt downstairs in the ward residence and wished again he could have convinced him to go to Mrs. Beaty’s instead. He would have felt better, knowing Matt was somewhere safe; that Matt was enjoying a home cooked turkey dinner. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

Linda placed a mask over his mouth and nose and instructed him to take deep breaths. Breathe in, count to three. Breathe out, count to three. It would be over soon. 


	23. Stay with me

 

Foggy woke up as his stomach cramped and hands grasped his shoulders, helping him turn over onto his side.

He coughed and took a breath as another bout of sickness rolled through him, and he hardly had the chance to inhale before his stomach spasmed again. It hurt, it hurt so much, and his eyes watered because he couldn’t breathe, and he couldn’t stop. Jagged pieces of glass scraped his throat while knives stabbed into his abdomen, and a meat grinder reduced his brains into ground beef.

No one had time to pander to his weakness.Linda would be disappointed. He shouldn’t inconvenience the staff. If he was too lazy to take care of himself why should others be forced to take care of him?

The housekeeping wards would clean up the mess. Over the years, Foggy recognised their faces if not their names. They didn’t speak to him. Maybe they didn’t even know English, but their eyes said much more than words ever could, they hated him. Foggy didn't blame them, hated himself too.

The heaving eventually abated, and he realised again that someone had been helping him. That wasn’t right. Was it Linda? He didn’t want it to be Linda. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He whispered to the owner of hands supporting him, expecting either silence or a scathing remark. Instead, a cool cloth wiped his face and eased him back into bed. That wasn't right; no one in the facility ever treated him as anything more than an inconvenience.

The only light in the room came from the window on the far wall where fabric blinds shut out most of the midday sun.  

But, the facility had no windows, no sunlight.

Foggy gripped the rail on the side of the bed. An empty IV port was taped to the back of his hand. He coughed again, and a cup of ice chips was pressed against his lips, and he warily took a sip.

He wanted to go home. Fingers stroked his hair, and Foggy flinched away from the touch, but they only pushed a few stray strands off his forehead and out of his eyes before withdrawing.

“Shh. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“Matt?” Foggy’s voice failed him, and the word came out sounding like a raspy croak.

“I’m here,” Matt whispered.

“Where?” Foggy asked and yes it was Matt, but Matt wasn’t in the facility. That didn’t make sense. “You shouldn’t be here,” oh please, don’t let Matt be in the facility.

“We’re at Klein Clinic, in Midtown. We’ve been here two days.”

Foggy sat up, looking around the room without seeing much of anything. The window. It wasn’t the facility because the facility didn’t have windows. “Two days?” he remembered none of it. “What are you doing here?” Foggy asked.

Matt’s face went through a series of expressions that Foggy couldn’t follow. “I’m taking care of you.” Matt tried to explain.

Foggy reached out and touched the collar around Matt’s neck. 

Matt eased Foggy’s hand away and back to the bed. “I’m fine, don't worry about me.”

Foggy was too tired to argue.

 

... 

 

Foggy woke up, this time with a greater sense of awareness. He lay in a narrow patient bed in a cozy yellow room with a tiled ceiling and a window with pale white curtains and he knew he was in Klein Clinic. He remembered being sick and seeing Matt. He remembered other vague impressions of doctors and nurses. And the treatment chair. How much time had passed? His hip felt tender but he didn’t feel dizzy or nauseous.

At first glance, Foggy thought he was alone. He pushed himself up further to find a comfortable position and then saw it.  

Matt was in the corner, curled up on top of a blanket, sleeping on the floor. Shit. Matt shouldn’t be there. Linda had been adamant that Matt stay in the ward residence. 

An IV tube ran from the back of his hand to the machine on his right. His hand felt swollen and bruised, a smear of dried blood beneath the clear tape holding the port in place. Foggy sat up further, mindful of the equipment attached to him to get a better look. Matt's back to the wall, his arm curved under his head as a pillow. He was still wearing the same style clinic uniform they had given him when Foggy had signed him in. “Matt,” Foggy whispered. He shifted but didn’t wake, and Foggy decided to let him sleep. 

The door swung open five minutes later. Linda breezed in, startling Matt awake. Foggy winced in sympathy as Matt scrambled into an upright position, folded his blanket, and knelt in the corner out of the way. Linda didn’t even spare him a glance as she crossed the room to stand at Foggy’s side.

“You’re looking better,” She said in a falsely sympathetic tone.

Foggy didn't care about Linda; he only cared about Matt; he’d missed too much. Matt had no bruises or outward signs that anyone had hurt him, but Foggy knew well enough a sadistic supervisor could devise punishments that wouldn’t leave visible marks.

Fuck. How could he have let this happen? He'd promised Matt he’d take care of him. He’d failed so spectacularly that Matt had been left sleeping on the floor, and now he was kneeling in the corner.

Linda wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Foggy’s arm.

“Is it Sunday? Are we done?”

“It is. You’ll be going home later this afternoon.” She said.

“Did you get everything you needed?”

“More or less. I think we’ve collected enough tissue samples to keep us busy until our next appointment, but I’ll be in touch if we need more.”

Foggy nodded. He considered asking her about Matt and decided against it. He needed to ask Matt himself.

“Your ward is very loyal,” Linda stated.

Foggy glanced over towards Matt, unsure how to answer. 

She was quiet for a moment as she removed the IV line and the port. “We had issues at first, but we sorted them out, right Matthew?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Matt answered.

“Matt, are you all right?” Foggy asked

“Yes, Foggy,” Matt answered.

Foggy didn’t believe him.

Linda sorted out the IV. “Dr. Wall will want to check in with you first, but you’ll be ready to go back home this afternoon. Get dressed, I'll be back to check on you before you're released,” She said and left.

Matt stood up as soon as the door shut and went to the closet to take out the plastic box with Foggy’s clothing in it. 

“Thanks.” Foggy swung his legs over the side of the bed; he needed to be sitting up for this. He needed to prove to Matt that despite the utter failure of the past few days, he could still be trusted to protect him. Foggy asked Matt to come closer. “Show me the back of your neck? Please.”

Matt turned around and crouched to give Foggy a better angle. Foggy eased the collar up, but the only marks appeared to be from where the prongs pressed against him, no burns.

That didn’t mean they hadn’t hurt him in other ways. “Face me.” Foggy instructed, and Matt straightened and turned. The student psychologist had indicated the most common places to find evidence of abuse were on the back of the neck and the wrists. Foggy took Matt’s right hand and inspected the skin around his wrist. He looked at the left wrist next. Nothing. No marks other than the old scars.

“Matt, are you okay? Did anything happen?” Foggy asked, dreading the answer. He wished again he’d been more insistent about Matt going to Mrs. Beaty’s house. He’d been an idiot to give in as easily as he did.

“They were hurting you,” Matt answered. “I could hear it from the residence quarters.”

Oh. "I’m fine,” Foggy assured him. “They were just doing tests.”

Matt sounded impatient. “Foggy, I was here. You can’t tell me you’re fine.”

Right. Foggy remembered Matt being there while he’d been… not well. Fuck.  "They made you take care of me?”

Matt shook his head, no. “I came on my own.”

“Why?”

Matt frowned, looking furious. 

Foggy didn’t understand. “Did you leave the ward residence without permission? Is that what Linda meant about issues?”

“Yes, I left the residence without permission,” Matt admitted. “Linda wanted to have me punished, and the supervisor, Justin, agreed.” Then Matt grinned. “He decided my punishment should be to stay in the room with you.”

“With nothing to sleep on?”

“Well, it was a punishment.” Matt reasoned. “He gave me a blanket.”

“And he didn’t hurt you?”

“No, Foggy. I’m fine. Justin was good, and I was careful around Linda. I know you don’t trust her.”

Foggy pulled Matt closer and held on as tight as possible. Matt chose to take care of him? “Thank-you for staying with me.” 


	24. Oyster

\-------------foggy

“Foggy?” Matt asked.

“Yeah, hold on a minute.” Foggy flipped through the mail; ads, bills, you’ve won a million dollars, same old, same old.

Seeing the logo of the Centre made him pause. Foggy knew Matt could hear his heart racing, but patience wasn’t one of his virtues, and he opened it right there to find one crisp piece of paper neatly folded in thirds, typewritten, stamped with an official seal, and signed. If Matt could hear his heart before, it had to be deafening by now. He shoved everything into his backpack and considered what to do next.

The original plan had been to go straight to the cafeteria, but Foggy grabbed Matt’s arm. “Let’s go back to the room first,” and yes it sounded borderline like an order, but he didn’t care. Not right now. Not after what he had read.

“You said you were hungry.”

“I am. I want to drop something off before we eat.” Foggy suggested, trying to sound innocent and failing.

Too bad. Foggy wasn't going to tell Matt anything until they were alone.

“You’re hungry. I can hear it.” Matt countered.

“Gross. Do you always eavesdrop on my stomach juices or is this a special occasion?”

“I can’t help what I hear.” Matt pulled on Foggy’s arm to make him stop walking as a soccer ball flew across the sidewalk in front of them. “That for example.”

Several people ran after the ball, paying no attention to Matt and Foggy standing on the sidewalk. “Thanks, buddy.”

Matt grinned, and they continued walking. “Are you going to tell me what was in that envelope you opened at the post office?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Foggy said and then added nothing.

Matt sighed. Foggy found it impressive how long-suffering Matt could sound. “May I see it?”

Foggy passed the letter. “Knock yourself out.”

It wasn’t in Braille, but Matt felt the edges, running his index finger over the lettering. Foggy watched as he brought the envelope close to his nose, making a disgusted face as he inhaled whatever scent was on it.

“It’s from the Centre.” Matt coughed and passed it back as though it may be contaminated. “What is it?”

“For that, we should wait until we’re back in our dorm.”

Matt exhaled, tension making his shoulders rise, visibly preparing himself for the worst. “Bad news?”

“You can't tell from my heartbeat?” Foggy asked.

"It's not Morse code," Matt grumbled. "There are signs I pick up on. When someone is upset or angry the lungs expand, their muscles tense, their body gets warmer. They sweat, it smells different than regular body odours, sharper. Hair stands on end; and I can hear it scratching against clothing. The digestive system slows down, and the mouth gets dry, throats get tighter and voices higher. It’s in how the body changes."

“What if someone’s happy?” Foggy asked.

“I don't know. It's not like can tell if someone is smiling, and there are a lot of reactions that are similar. Anger and stress are easier to pick up on.”

And, Foggy suspected, Matt had a thousand reasons to pay more attention to anger and fear rather than happiness over the past few years. “Can you tell how I’m feeling right now?” Foggy asked.

“You’re nervous. It's bad isn't it?”

“I didn't say that." 

Matt frowned. They walked the rest of the way in silence. Once they arrived at their dorm room, and Matt placed his backpack under his desk and sat down in his chair, waiting.

“What’s wrong?” Matt asked.

“Matt. I have something to tell you.” Foggy started, keeping his tone serious and drawing out the moment for as long as possible.

“What?” Matt asked again and took off his glasses. Foggy grinned, did Matt take off his glasses just so that Foggy would see him roll his eyes? How could a person look like they were about to be told they have two months to live, and yet still be so adorable?

Foggy surged forward and tackled Matt in a hug.

“They did it! They approved my petition and lifted your curfew!”

Matt stayed still for a second, then realizing what Foggy had said, hugged him back. They stayed like that until Matt pulled away, leaning back in the chair in relief. “That- that’s great news." He smacked Foggy in the arm. "I thought you were going to tell me something horrible.”

Foggy laughed. “Sorry. I couldn't help myself. I look forward to your retaliation with equal parts anticipation and dread. We need to celebrate. Tonight we dine on real food. Expensive food!” He jumped up and grabbed his wallet. “What do you want to eat?”

He watched Matt consider. “What are my options?”

“The world is your oyster, except, you can’t eat the world. So. What do you want? Anything! What is your fondest culinary wish that our illustrious cafeteria and gourmet sometimes-fresh sandwich stand fails to fulfill?”

Matt laughed. “I don’t know.” and as he thought about it, Foggy hummed the tune from Jeopardy.

“There’s something else I wouldn’t mind doing,” Matt said. He fidgeted with the armrest of his chair, fingers plucking at a loose thread on the fraying fabric.

Foggy stopped humming. “What?”

Matt told Foggy about the time he escaped from the Uniform Supply Factory and hid at St Agnes. The warmth in his voice when he talked about his memories of the orphanage were clear. “That's the last time I saw her.” Matt finished.

“Does she still work there?”

“Yes. It was one of the first things I looked up when you gave me my computer.” Matt answered.

Foggy flicked his computer on and spun around in his chair as the webpage loaded. “I’ll print a day-pass printed  so you won't get harassed if you come across any check stops.”

“I’d like you to come with me. If you want. I want her to meet you.”

Foggy beamed. “Sure. When? Do you want to go tonight? We can grab something to eat along the way.” He logged into his Centre account and entered the information for the day pass and then, just to be sure, he went into the account information and looked up at Matt’s profile.

 _Work Class: Disabled (assistance recommended, vision impaired)_  
_Health Condition: Rehabilitative progress (assessment pending)_  
_Implants: Spinal: GPS Immobilizer (inactive)_  
_Collar: Neckband: Electrical training control non-release /remote/key_  
_Curfew: N/A_  
_Recommended Discipline: Level 1, compliant._

Foggy felt proud at how far Matt’s profile had progressed. It was terrible, but Foggy was willing to take the victories where he could get them and Matt going from a Recommended Discipline level of -5 correctional/punitive status to a Level 1 compliant status would make a huge difference the next time Matt had to deal with the douchebags at the Centre.

“I should call first,” Matt suggested.

“Right. Want me to look up the number?”

“I know it.” Matt held out his hand, and Foggy passed him his cell phone. He dialled the number and waited. “Um. Hi… May I speak with Sister Catherine, please?… Yes, I’ll hold.” Foggy kicked Matt's ankle and grinned when Matt kicked him back. “Oh. Do you know if she will be busy later this afternoon?... No? Do you think it will be okay to stop by and visit?… Can you tell her it’s an old friend?... Thanks. Bye.”

Foggy printed out the day pass and gave it to Matt to carry in his pocket. “Do you want to eat before or after?” he asked, waiting for Matt to finish getting ready.

“Before.” Matt decided. “I can still hear your stomach growling.”

Foggy wadded up a piece of scrap paper on his desk and threw it at Matt’s head only to have it efficiently swatted away before it even came close to hitting him. “Any preference?”

“There’s a, or there was a Thai restaurant I used to like. I went with a friend a few times, back, before.”

“You think you can find it again?”

Matt grinned. “If it’s still there, I know I can.”

They ate at the Thai restaurant. Foggy watched Matt eat, wondering what he’d been like as a teenager.

“What were you like back then?” he asked.

Matt froze. “Independent,” he answered. “That’s what got me into trouble.”

“You know what happened to you isn't your fault, don’t you?” Foggy asked.

“I shouldn’t have fought them.”

“I disagree. You should have never been in the position where you felt like you needed to fight.”

Matt answered with a noncommittal grunt and went back to eating.

Foggy waved his chopsticks as he spoke. “You’re still independent. Not in the same way, but I think you’re probably more like your younger self than you give yourself credit for.”

“What were you like before getting sick?”

“I was a jerk.”

“And the difference from now?” Matt asked.

“Ha. Okay, that's fair, considering what an ass I've been today." Foggy laughed. "I had friends, but no one I was close to. We hung out and stuff, but there wasn’t anyone I wanted to see after my diagnosis. It meant a lot to me that you let me be your friend in the hospital.” He reminded himself that they were celebrating this wasn't the time to get all maudlin and gushy. “A toast,” Foggy held up his plastic cup of Sprite. “To the end of your curfew and our first victory against the Centre.”

Matt held up his plastic cup of Pepsi. “To our first victory.”

It was only a short walk to St Agnes from the Thai restaurant. Matt and Foggy stood outside looking at the old buiding. Well, Foggy was looking, he wasn't sure what was going through Matt's head. 

Matt was fiddling with the cuff of his right sleeve. “I wish you didn’t have to wear that,” Foggy said.

“Mm?”

“Your ID Bracelet. I wish you didn’t have to wear it.”

Matt cleared his throat. “Foggy,” He started again and stopped. “I’m not who I was,” he said, his voice subdued.

“You’re Matt Murdock,” Foggy said. “You’re a student at Columbia University, and you’re my best friend.”

Matt nodded. They walked up the path together, and Matt opened the door.

 

\--------matt

The last time he’d been in the orphanage had been to hide. The last time he had walked out the door had been in police custody.

The last time he had heard Sister Catherine’s voice had been when she had screamed as a collar locked around his neck.

Matt walked inside with Foggy trailing behind him. He wore no collar. He was not on the run. He stilled, listening. There it was, footsteps and laughter. The kids were in the common room.

“I know where they are,” He said to Foggy, leading the way down the corridor. Everything was the same, and it was as though no time had passed at all. He already recognised most of the voices. He walked up to the closed door and lightly placed his hand on the wood. There were several small groups of people playing games, some were sitting and reading (he could hear the crinkle of paper and the swish of pages turning). Sister Catherine was there.  He placed his hand on the door knob and hesitated. 

This wasn't a good idea. 

Good idea or not, he pushed the door open.

A hush fell over the room as one by one, the kids recognised him. Their hearts started racing.

He shouldn’t have come. He was scaring the kids. He shouldn’t have assumed anyone would want to see him after the danger he had put them all in.

“Matt, they’re smiling,” Foggy whispered behind him.

The words registered just before the first impact hit, a teenager, sending him stumbling back a few steps as her arms wrapped around him, and then another and another until he was completely surrounded.

Matt hugged them back, holding on to them just as tight as they were holding him.  

They coordinated enough to drag him over to a couch, where they pulled him down and yet again smothered him in over exuberant welcomes. Matt cataloged their names in his head as they spoke. Kim, Stacy, Steven, Mark, Jack, Alexi, Thomas, Tina.

“Okay, enough. Give him a chance to breathe so I can have a turn.” An older voice ordered, and the kids eased off so that when a hand took his and pulled him up, he was free to stand.

Sister Catherine.

She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him so close their cheeks were touching. He could feel her smiling against his skin. She was beautiful. He felt like he'd just come home, it was so much more than what he'd hoped for.

“When did You get free from the Centre?" she asked. 

Matt froze.

"Did they reverse your sentence? How did you do it?” 

He pulled away as her hand trailed down his arm and to his right wrist.  Her fingers ran along the chain links of the ID bracelet where his shirt sleeve had ridden up and exposed his wrist. He pulled his sleeve back down, but it was already too late.

 


	25. Righteous

 

The kids who remembered him weren’t so little anymore. The familiar scents and sounds enveloped him in a profound and comforting sense of nostalgia. _I come from here; this is who I am._

And then Sister Catherine, her voice had sounded so hopeful, asked how he got free from the Centre.

Sister Catherine's entire body language changed when she discovered Matt’s ID bracelet. It was everything Matt had described to Foggy about how he sensed anger and stress. Heart rate, body temperature, breathing, posture. He drew back and covered his wrist with his sleeve. He'd been naïve to think his presence would be anything but a painful reminder to everyone who knew him before becoming a state-ward.

Sister Catherine stood frozen, her heart pounding.

“Matt?” Foggy stood just behind him, his hand gently resting on his shoulder.

“I’m good,” Matt answered and placed his hand over Foggy’s. He needed to stay focused and grounded. He breathed in the scent of meatloaf, potatoes and apple pie the kids had had for supper. Beneath that lay the older smell of lemon-scented wood polish. The tightness that had been threatening to take hold in Matt’s chest relaxed.

“Can we talk?” Matt asked Sister Catherine. He knew there was a small study room to the side of the common area, and he motioned toward it.

“Yes,” She answered, stepping forward and taking his hand to guide him.

“You want to talk to her alone?” Foggy asked him.

“That would be best,” Matt answered.

“Okay then.” Foggy leant against the couch; Matt noticed as he twisted around and peeked at the card game a couple of the kids had been playing. Foggy would be okay on his own for a little while.

The door to the study clicked open, and Matt ran his fingers on the frame as he entered. There was a small sofa along one wall, and a desk and a large bookshelf along the other; everything was where he remembered it. Sister Catherine pulled the door shut, and a shiver of anxiety ran down his spine at the sensation of being shut in, but he pushed it away. 

“Does your owner know you’re here?”

“I’m not a slave.” Matt corrected her and sat down. "I'm a ward; I'm not owned by anyone."

“That's bullshit and you know it. Nothing will ever change if we refuse to acknowledge the system for what it is.” She countered and tapped her fingers on the desk. “The young man with you, it’s him, isn’t it? He’s either your supervisor or your leaseholder; I doubt you would have been allowed to come here otherwise.”

“He’s my friend,” and even though he couldn’t see it, he could feel the intensity of her stare. “Yes, he’s in charge of my lease,” he admitted, “I wanted you to meet him.” Matt rested his forearms on his knees.

“Why?”

“To show you I’m okay. That I’m doing better.”

Sister Catherine came over and sat on the couch beside him. She grasped Matt’s right wrist, the one with the ID bracelet. “This is not better.” She shook his wrist for emphasis.

“I’m a student at Columbia; I'm going to go to law school. It's everything I've ever wanted.”

She laughed.

“That’s not what I mean,” Matt corrected.

She pulled him into a hug. “I should have protected you better; I should have fought for you harder.” She placed her hands on Matt’s shoulders, and she was so close that Matt could feel her breath on his cheek. “This is wrong; this is all wrong. I’ll think of something. Is there a way I can contact you safely? Maybe I can find somewhere for you to hide until we can make arrangements.”

Matt pulled away. “You don’t understand. I don't want to run away.” He paused, feeling flustered. “Why are you crying? Look at me. I’m eating regular meals; no one is hurting me. He doesn't even make me wear a collar.”

“Matt. Are you listening to yourself? Is this the best you can hope for?”

“Yes,” Matt admitted. “You don't understand,” he was about to say more when she surged to her feet and marched out the door leaving Matt to follow. She was angry, furious. Her anger only increased when she saw Foggy had made himself comfortable on the couch to play cards with a group of kids.

“You are not welcome here.”

Matt hurried to intervene as Foggy jumped up, tripping over his own feet in his haste to back away. Matt set himself between them. 

“Children, if you’ll excuse us,” Sister Catherine said with false cheerfulness. “Matt, come with me, and bring your _friend_ with you.”  

Matt and Foggy followed her out of the common room and down the hall. Matt placed his hand on Foggy’s elbow as they walked. He knew he should turn around and leave. He should grab Foggy and get him out of there before Sister Catherine could confront him. That wasn't fair to Foggy. 

But, what if Matt could still convince her that it was alright? Maybe he could still salvage this?

They continued along the corridor to the dining hall. Sister Catherine shut the door, so the three of them could speak in private, safe from the prying eyes of the children.

With her hands on her hips and standing with her feet shoulder width apart, she was ready for a fight.

“Leaseholders, supervisors." She said with a tone dripping with venom. "You people disgust me.” 

Matt took a step forward. “This isn’t Foggy’s fault.”

“Then whose fault is it? How can you stand there and defend the person responsible for keeping you enslaved?”

“I’m-” Foggy started.

“Foggy, no, back off.” Matt ordered, and Foggy snapped his mouth shut with an audible click of teeth. Matt turned back to Sister Catherine. “We were friends long before Foggy took on the responsibility of my lease. He is neither my oppressor, nor my owner, and the price Foggy is paying to keep me safe is far beyond whatever the Centre is getting paid. I hate the Centre, and I hate that those bastards profit from what they did to me, but what am I supposed to do? What is Foggy supposed to do? How can you look me in the eye and tell me you’d prefer that I rot in the Market instead of going to school?” 

“Don't kid yourself into thinking you are free, Matt,” Sister Catherine said. 

"Of course, I know that, but I don't have a choice. I am trying to make the best of what I do have, why can't you accept that?"

Foggy cleared his throat. “I should go. Let you talk. Have some coffee, or you know, caffeine is probably a bad idea right now. Maybe some herbal tea? Chamomile? Right, I'm going."

Matt caught Foggy by his jacket before he had the chance to get away and addressed Sister Catherine. “I brought Foggy here to meet you. If he goes, I go with him.”

“No, stay.” Sister Catherine relaxed her posture. Matt suspected she was attempting to control her temper. “I'd like to talk to the both of you. Matt, do you want coffee?” she asked.

No, that wasn't passive aggressive at all, Matt thought sarcastically.  Foggy had implied he shouldn't have coffee and so she offered him coffee. 

"Yes, thank you,” Matt said. Hoping that choosing coffee would prove to her that he didn't need to follow Foggy's orders.

“Me too, please.” Foggy echoed.  

Sister Catherine went to the kitchen, leaving Matt and Foggy alone.  Matt followed her movements as she opened the cupboards and placed a tin of Folgers on the counter. The smell filled the air as she lifted the lid and scooped several tablespoons into a filter.  

“I’m sorry,” Foggy said, interrupting his focus. Matt pulled a chair out from a table and sat down; Foggy followed suit moments later. “You should have come on your own.” 

Matt laughed. “Don’t apologise. If you weren’t here, I’d probably be halfway to Canada by now.” He continued listening to Sister Catherine in the kitchen as she set up three mugs and a tray while the coffee dripped into the pot.

Foggy scratched at a dent on the table. “Is that something you want?”

Matt stilled. Was it? “It’s not even an option.” He still had an implant in his back with an active GPS; he wasn't going anywhere.

“If it was an option?”

“Things are different now. I don’t…” He stopped himself before he could say; I don’t want to leave you. Sister Catherine poured the coffee and picked up the tray; she headed back.

She walked into the room and placed the platter on the table, passing a mug of coffee to each Matt and Foggy, and then taking the last one for herself. She sat down and took a deep breath before speaking. “Foggy.” The word left her mouth as though it tasted like poison. “What kind of name is that?”

“There’s nothing wrong with his name.” Matt countered. 

“Foggy,” She said again. “I hope you hold nothing I said earlier against Matthew.” She took a sip of her coffee. “He doesn’t deserve to be punished for my bad manners.”

“I wouldn't do that.” Foggy insisted, and pushed his chair back to stand up. “Matt, I should let the two of you talk in private.”

“No.” Matt reached over and gripped Foggy’s wrist. Foggy obediently sat back down.

Sister Catherine made a noise at the back of her throat, but continued, “So, Matt. You said you were attending Columbia University. Tell me about your classes.”

Matt smiled, hoping this meant she was ready to listen. If only he could make her see how different Foggy was from other leaseholders and supervisors, she would understand. He told her what subjects he was taking, explained which ones interested him the most. 

“He’s an excellent student,” Foggy added.

Sister Catherine ignored him. “Matt, what kind of work does Foggy have you doing?”

“We spend most of our spare time studying.”

She turned to Foggy. “Are you a student as well?”

Foggy nodded. “Yes, ma'am.”

“What does Matt do for you in return for the privilege of being allowed extra study time?”

“We help each other when we can; we’re taking a lot of the same subjects.” Foggy answered, and Matt was proud of how unruffled Foggy remained. “We study together.”

The conversation fizzled into an uncomfortable silence.  As the seconds passed, Matt heard Sister Catherine's heartbeat pick up in pace again.

Not again. Matt didn't want to argue anymore. 

Her attention refocused on Foggy. “Do you think you’re a good person just because you don't make him wear a collar? Because you feed him regular meals and you let him go to school that that absolves you from the fact that you own another human being?” Foggy froze mid-sip of his coffee and placed the mug back down on the table; his breathing quickened as he prepared a response.

Matt sighed and rubbed his face. “Please, stop.” He didn’t want them fighting, not over him, and he couldn’t accept Sister Catherine’s hostility toward Foggy. He owed everything to Foggy.

Foggy kept his mouth shut.

Sister Catherine got ready to continue her rant.

Matt cut her off. “You make it sound like there is a better alternative. There isn't. I am a state-ward and I belong to the Centre. At least, tell me you're glad that I'm safe.”

“I’m relieved you’re alive, Matt. You have no idea how many nights I have spent praying for you."

"Prayers didn't save me." He stopped. "Foggy got me out of the Market; he takes care of me. He's paying for my tuition so that I can attend university and he defends me when people try to take advantage of my status. Your prayers don't do that; Foggy does."

"Don’t be naïve. Your owner is not your saviour. You aren’t safe, and you won't be so long as you are a slave to the Centre. You are brainwashed by the system that has enslaved you.  I’m sorry, but the Matthew Murdock I knew would never have given up his freedom so easily, and I won’t let you try to persuade me otherwise.”

“You think it was easy?” Matt asked.

“I won’t let anyone endanger the safety of the children under my care, that includes protecting them from you.”

"What do you think I am going to do? Convince them to sign up to become Centre dependants? That's ridiculous."

"These kids will be at risk of being taken advantage of, just like you were. Your presence threatens to normalise a system that is out to destroy them. They see you, and you're making it look like you have it good, it means maybe they won't put up as much of a fight when they need to."

"And how are you going to do that? Keep them ignorant? You have to teach them about what is out there; ignorance never helped me. Fighting didn't help, either." Matt stood up and tapped Foggy's arm to signal him to follow. "Will you tell the kids goodbye for me? I know my way out.”

Sister Catherine followed them to the front door. “Matt, when the time comes, I’ll be here for you.” Matt could sense her standing at the door watching as they walked away.

Foggy squeezed his arm as they turned the corner.

“Foggy, I'm sorry." Matt stopped and leant against the nearest building. 

"She's something, isn't she?" Foggy said and stood beside him. 

Matt laughed. 

"I'm serious, Matt," Foggy insisted. “I bet she would wrestle bears to keep those kids in there safe.”

"Thank you," Matt said. Sister Catherine was her same indomitable self.  He didn’t even disagree with anything she'd said. She was right, the Matt Murdock she knew would have never given up, and he never had. The Matt Murdock she remembered was still alive inside him. 

“Matt, we’ll get there,” Foggy said. “We will be the best damn lawyers this city has ever seen and we’ll bring the Centre everything it stands for to its knees. I promise, buddy.”

Foggy wasn't lying. “I know we will.” Matt answered.


	26. Midnight

“We could stay out all night if we wanted to.” Foggy mused. The weather for early December was still mild. It hadn't snowed yet, and the air felt cold but in a refreshing rather than biting kind of way. 

“You don’t want to get back?” Matt asked.

“No,” Foggy admitted. “We’re celebrating. Let’s celebrate.” 

Foggy watched Matt frown. The evening had been a mixed bag so far. Thai food had been excellent, meeting Sister Catherine had been much less so, but the evening wasn’t over yet. 

“What do you want to do?”

“We can walk through Riverside Park if you want.”  

“We’re more than an hour away,” Matt warned. 

Foggy shrugged. “I like walking.”

They headed for the park. Short black decorative lamps lit the path leaving patches of darkness in between. Foggy tripped over a crack in the pavement, and Matt caught his arm before he could fall. “Thanks, buddy.”

“It’s funny that I can see better than you right now.” 

Foggy laughed. Yes, it was, but it was also freaking amazing. “What do you see?”

“I'm blind, remember? I don't see anything.” 

Foggy rolled his eyes. “Can you tell I rolled my eyes at you?”

“I can't hear your eyes rolling. Most facial expressions are too subtle.” Matt made a contemplative noise. “I can sense layers and shapes. I know we’re alone because I can’t hear any extra heartbeats, not human hearts, at least.  There's something small hiding under the bush over there. There are cars on Henry Hudson Parkway to the left, and Riverside Drive to the right, and apartments along the street. TV sets, someone is watching the Simpsons. Kids are playing on a swing set in a playground behind one of the apartments. A woman is arguing with a cab driver about a detour. Uhm. There’s a bench to the right and steps up ahead.” 

“Wow, you hear all that?” Foggy asked. Matt grinned, and Foggy wished he could make Matt look that happy all the time. “Are we going to pass through the skatepark you told me about?”

“This path will take us near there.” 

“Did you know I used to skate?” Foggy asked, and Matt shook his head, no, and Foggy spent the next fifteen minutes telling Matt all about his brief but illustrious skateboarding career. 

“Why did you stop?”

“I broke my arm.” He guided Matt's hand to a spot about a third of the way down from his elbow. “And after that,” he shrugged. "Then everything else happened. I wasn't very good at it."

The skate park wasn’t far out of the way. Foggy stopped and stared at the expanse of shadowy concrete structures. 

“Want to see what I can do?” Matt asked. 

“Yes. You have no idea how much I want to.” 

Matt was smiling again. He stretched, arching his back, rolling his shoulders. Foggy sat down on a bench and waited. 

They way Matt moved had a fluidity to it that Foggy could only accurately describe as beautiful. This kind of athleticism, after four years without practice, was incredible.  

Matt didn’t have to look at what he was doing or where he was going; he felt it. There was no hesitation, no doubt. 

And Matt, he was made for this. If Matt sprouted wings and flew away right then, Foggy wouldn't have been more in awe. He could watch forever. But Matt returned, only a little bit out of breath, and sat down beside him. 

“How did you learn to do that?” Foggy asked. 

“I had a mentor when I was young. Someone who taught me how to use my senses, how to,” Matt paused for a moment. “How to move and how to fight. Exercising like this feels natural.” 

“You know most kids going through puberty just take long showers and masturbate, right?” 

Matt chuckled and bumped against Foggy’s arm. Matt stretched his back again, a grimace showing on his face.

“You okay?” Foggy asked. 

“Yeah. I’m all right. Just a bit sore. Ready to keep going?” 

Foggy stood and pulled Matt up with him, a little worried by how stiffly Matt seemed to be walking, but he appeared to move more smoothly as they continued walking.  Matt talked about the orphanage, stories about the kids he knew growing up. Stories about Sister Catherine. 

"You aren’t too disappointed about how the visit went?"

Matt shrugged. “She made her choice.”

....

They were back at the dorm before midnight. 

Matt ran his finger over his tactile watch for about the hundredth time. 

“Seven minutes to midnight,” Foggy said. 

Matt sat on his bed, silent, knees drawn up to his chest in the corner, clutching the stress ball in his fist. 

“Does it feel like the implant is starting to charge or anything?”

"Not charging, but I feel it." He rubbed his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut, as though that would help block out the world around him. "I feel it all the time. I want it out of me." 

"I’ll file another petition." 

"They don’t care about petitions or paperwork. I belong to them Foggy. I'm not even worth anything to them. They just did it because they could, to show they were in control. I don’t have a say in anything, not even what happens to my body." 

"I’m sorry," Was the only thing Foggy could think of to say.

“What if the curfew is still active? What if the Centre didn’t follow through? You’re sure you read the date correctly?” Matt asked. 

“Yes. About fifty times, and I checked your profile on the Centre website to make sure they updated your status. Curfew was dated inactive from the beginning of the week.” Foggy picked up the paper and read the part with the date out loud again. “Would it make you feel better to wear the collar just in case?”

“No,” Matt said and tensed as the minute hand clicked forward again. 

This time, Foggy heard the click of the minute hand as well.

“Will you sit with me?” Matt asked. 

Foggy crawled onto the bed and sat beside him. Matt took Foggy’s hand and intertwined their fingers. 

"When it’s charging," Matt whispered, "it feels like pins and needles. It doesn't feel like that right now. Maybe I’m thinking about it too much. Foggy, I don’t know.” 

_Thirty seconds._

Foggy wished he could do more. He wished he could do more than just pay Matt's lease and keep him safe for the time being. 

_Twenty seconds._

Foggy wished he could order the Centre to remove the implant from Matt’s back so he would never have to worry about it again. 

 _Ten seconds._  

Matt held his hand so tight it hurt.  

Foggy didn’t mind; he held onto Matt just as hard. 

The hour struck midnight. Matt made a quiet noise, almost like a whimper, as he held his breath and waited. 

Nothing happened. Matt’s implant didn’t activate. 

It was over.  

“Congratulations, Matt.” Foggy said.  

Matt exhaled the breath he’d been holding. He was shaking. Letting go of Foggy’s hand, his fingers trembled as he covered his face with his hands. 

At first, Foggy was afraid Matt was in pain. 

Matt’s breathing got harsher, more erratic, and he curled up against Foggy’s side. Foggy wrapped his arms around him and held him tight even though the reaction didn't make sense to him. He’d assumed Matt would be relieved and happy.  

What Foggy did understand was that the implant had been used to control and threaten him. It had prevented him from escaping horrific abuse. For the first time in four years, Matt was going to be able to spend a night without a metal collar around his neck. Foggy couldn't even begin to imagine how that must feel.  

So Foggy did the only thing he could, he stayed silent and held on.

Eventually, they lied down, still holding onto each other, and fell asleep.  

 


	27. Test

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much DalamarF16 for being an awesome beta and reminding me what life is like for stressed out college students!

In the second week of December, a foot of snow covered the landscape.

The storm prompted a last-minute shopping trip for jackets and boots, and Foggy tried not to be tempted by all the snowball fights he could be taking part in if they didn’t have to spend every last minute studying for those fucking exams.

Their life consisted of coffee, books, pencils, food, bathroom breaks, and more books. They had no spare time, no time for any social life, no Netflix, no YouTube, no comic books. Nothing.

They didn't hear the speech Captain America delivered at the Justice and Freedom rally. They didn’t hear about the factory fire in Dallas where over a hundred wards died in a warehouse when a  when a faulty emergency system failed to unlock the security doors. They didn't hear about the protests in New Orleans and Vegas.

“Did we eat tonight?” Foggy asked Matt at nine. Where did the hours go? The last time he looked at the clock it had been five thirty.

Matt sniffed and made a face. “You ate a bag of Doritos at around six, I think.”

“Did you eat?” Foggy asked.  

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“Dammit, Matt.” Foggy threw Matt’s jacket and boots at him, grabbed his arm, and dragged him towards the cafeteria. It was closed, but the snack machine just inside the doors of the building was always open for business. “What will it be, buddy?”

Matt groaned. “I’m not hungry,”

Foggy said nothing. With Matt, sometimes silence worked better than words.

“What are my options?” Matt sighed.

Worked like a charm. “There’s like twenty things in there, so I’ll stick to listing what I know you like; Snickers, Cheetos.”

“I don’t like Cheetos.”

“That explains why you never choose them. Okay, so; Lays chips, Cheez-its, and m&ms. Hey, there’s microwave popcorn! We could use Jeremy’s microwave.”

“That then.”

“You want the popcorn?”

“I’m still not hungry.”

Foggy bought the popcorn. He didn't have time for arguing. Every little thing that wasn’t studying felt like an anxiety-inducing extra, and the closer they came to exam time, the more his anxiety grew.

And, to top it off, he had to keep track of Matt’s eating habits because that wasn’t something Matt seemed capable of doing on his own anymore.

Jeremy allowed Foggy the use of his microwave in exchange for a handful of popcorn. Done. Then Foggy dragged Matt back to their room, sat him down and plopped the bag of popcorn on his lap.

“Matt, please.” Foggy insisted he didn't have time to put up with Matt's bullshit right now; he just wanted Matt to eat.

Matt glared in his general direction, grinned, and plucked one kernel out of the bag and ate it. Slowly.  

Foggy quietly screamed. 

Matt laughed and threw a piece of popcorn at his face. “Don’t worry; I'm not going to starve.” He ate another piece of popcorn.

Foggy resisted the urge to strangle his friend and reminded himself that it wasn’t Matt’s fault he was going to have a nervous breakdown. Nope. Matt was just being Matt. The fact Matt didn’t eat when he was upset wasn’t new information. Foggy need to learn how to be chill about it. Matt had been through some terrible shit, and this was his way of coping with it. Fine. 

He just needed to be patient. It was pretty obvious Matt was suffering from a stress disorder of one kind or another, and it became only more obvious anytime Matt opened up to him about some of the horrible things he'd experienced at previous placements. 

_They'd been up late studying a week earlier when Foggy had read a paragraph about prisoners of war out loud from a chapter of his psychology textbook._

_"Whether due to being shot down or captured during front line engagement or by any other means, POW’s have been subject to ghastly forms of torture and unthinkable psychological warfare such as starvation, brainwashing, physical mutilation, humiliation, sexual degradation, electrocution, and severe sickness. Because of these acts that occurred during captivity, many soldiers suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder." 1_

_“Sounds like training at the Centre,”  Matt said, his voice flat. “And they call it 'Unthinkable psychological warfare'? How does no one see that they are doing the same things to us?”_

_Foggy sighed.  “Matt, I don’t think it’s that they can’t see it, I think it’s that they refuse to.”_

_Matt had been lying down listening to Foggy read the textbook but now he sat up and faced him. "Did you have any idea what the Centre was like before becoming my supervisor?”_

_“Yeah,” Foggy admitted. “My birth mother has always had_ wards _working for her. I saw a lot of what goes on first hand while I was growing up.”_

_"But you still talked to me in the hospital."_

_“Your status doesn't make you any less of a person,” Foggy said. "You looked like someone I wanted to know."_

_“Sister Catherine deliberately sheltered us from knowing too much about the Centre. Maybe if I’d been more prepared… All I knew was what I’d heard on the radio and TV. There are advertisements on the radio all the time about the workshops the Centre offers. Rehabilitation. Social Engineering. Exciting new careers in Supervision Technology. I never knew they were talking about mind control and torture devices. No one ever tells the truth about any of it.”_

_“No one wants to admit what they’re doing is wrong.”_

_“The first thing they do is take away your food. It's easier to control people who are hungry. The supervisor at the laundry factory told me that. He took extra training classes; he liked to test them out on me.  He described a lot of the stuff he learned.” Matt shivered. “He said he wanted to reform me, make me better.”_

_Foggy marked his page in the textbook with a paper and put it back on his desk. “Reducing calories is on the recommended discipline list.”_

_“I lost my appetite after the implant surgery. My supervisor thought I was trying to be rebellious. I wasn't. Just the smell of food turned my stomach. He tried to make me drink nutritional supplements, but that was even worse. Those cans, they smell terrible. He ended up bringing in an expert on force-feeding. There was a chair with straps, and a tube.”  Matt didn’t go on; the details weren’t necessary. “I made myself drink the supplements after that.”_

_Foggy understood._

_Matt went on. “They tried to use food against me at my last placement, the one before you. The only food they’d let me eat was by hand.”_

_“What, without cutlery?”_

_“No. I mean, I was only allowed to eat what they fed me by hand.”_

And the Centre had diagnosed Matt with an eating disorder and had the gall to call it Nutritional Defiance Disorder. 

.....

Foggy forgot what it was like to not be holed up in his room; he forgot what it was like to talk to people about things that weren’t essays, exams or university. Showering even seemed to take too much time.

It sucked. It sucked. It sucked.

And then the day of their first exam got closer… And it sucked more.

If Matt’s anxiety manifested with food, then Foggy’s manifested through coffee.

He lived for coffee. Dark Roast. Blonde Roast. Cafe Misto. Caffe Latte. Espresso.

Sleep was overrated. He needed the extra study time more.

Foggy stopped looking at the clock at one in the morning. He sat at his desk rereading the same paragraph of text for the third time, still retaining none of it, and resisted the urge to bang his head. He sighed. He stretched. He reorganised. He sharpened his pencils. He tried reading the same paragraph again. It still was less intelligible than Punjabi.

He let his head fall with a thud on his desk.

Behind him, Matt rolled over and groaned. His hand reached out from under his blanket like a mole man and tapped his audio clock. A robotic voice informed them both it was two a.m.

“Go to bed.” Matt mumbled from under his covers.

Foggy bit his tongue. He had to finish reading. He couldn’t sleep; there wasn’t time. Matt emerged from his covers and sat up, his legs over the side of the bed, his eyes puffy and closed. “You need to sleep.” Matt reasoned. “I need to sleep. Please.”

“I’m not tired.” Foggy lied with a yawn. He took a sip of his long-time-cold coffee on his desk. What was it, latte? Milk was gathering in clumps along the edges of the cup. But, caffeine.

“What are you reading?” Matt asked.

“Nothing. Obviously, nothing, because you would have heard me turn the page if I finished an entire fucking paragraph and understood it.”

“You’re pushing yourself too hard. You won't retain anything if you don’t sleep. Your brain will stop working.”

“If I study I want to do something else. If I do something else, I feel guilty and I want to study. If I study, I get tired and I want to sleep. If I sleep, I freak out because I'm wasting my time and I have to study. I think I’m losing my mind, Matt. Why can’t the zombie invasion just arrive and save us? If I’m going through this just so the apocalypse can happen a week later, I will be pissed.”  

“The world isn’t ending. Go to bed.” Matt pleaded again.

Foggy turned off the light and followed Matt’s advice. He wasn’t tired. His head was spinning, everything was jumbled, and he wasn’t-

He fell asleep.

 ...

Matt wasn’t studying any less than Foggy, but he stayed calm. 

That was, he stayed calm until his European History exam drew close. Matt spent long hours in the library. He reviewed his notes and his textbook and studied with Dylan, Steven and Tara from the abolitionist club. He sat on his bed whispering dates and names again and again until Foggy could have passed that fucking exam too.

The most difficult part for Foggy was knowing the underlying cause and not being able to fix it; Matt was struggling under the pressure to prove he was worth the effort of being allowed to keep going to school.

Matt needed to prove his worth to the Dean, to his professors, and to the student admissions board. That was Matt’s reality, and he had far more to lose by failing an exam than anyone else did.

Worst of all Foggy suspected Matt wanted to prove it to him too.

“I’ve been out of school too long. I can't do this.”

None of the typical platitudes offered to students applied to Matt.  

_It’s your health and happiness that count. Don’t let your grades define you._

It was all bullshit. Matt’s life depended on his ability to test well. If anything ever forced Matt back into the Market (over Foggy’s dead body), having an education would change everything. It would mean the difference between getting his lease sold into another 'throw-away' placement like the ones he’d had before, or getting chosen by a professional company and valued for his skills.  

Matt's nightmares intensified, too. They weren't normally this pronounced, and often Foggy wasn't even aware Matt had woken up in the night. Thus, it was fortunate for them both that Foggy had a vendetta against sleep. It was about an hour after Matt drifted off that Foggy would see the first signs of Matt’s dreams becoming troubled. Foggy was alert for it; he was familiar with Matt’s nightmare routine.  Matt would twitch, his mouth would open in a shaky sigh, and his breathing would become fast and unsteady. Foggy would sit beside him, placing a hand on his arm, and sometimes that was enough to calm him down. Other times it wasn't.  

“Matt.” He'd shake him awake.

Matt would lie still, taking in his surroundings while Foggy reminded him where he was and that he was safe.  

“Which one was it this time?”  Foggy asked. 

Sometimes Matt would tell him, “It was the one with the professor,”; or “It was the one about the Market."  Other times Matt would tell him he didn’t remember, and Foggy would sit beside him, letting Matt hold his hand, and say nothing at all until Matt’s eyes closed and he drifted back to sleep.

 ...

“Do you think the Dean will withdraw his support if I fail?” Matt asked Foggy the night before his last exam. 

 _Yes,_ Foggy didn’t doubt it. “You aren’t going to fail. You’ve got perfect grades in this class, and you’ll do fine.”

Matt paced the small room and laughed. It was strained and brittle and altogether not good. “Why do I even care?”

“Why shouldn’t you?”

“Why should I?” Matt shot back. “We have years of school ahead of us, and even if I’m around long enough to finish it, even if they let me take the bar, then what? Sister Catherine was right, I’m nothing more than a slave, and the Centre is my master. They own me, Foggy. At least, as a throw-away, I wasn’t supporting the system.”

Foggy grabbed his arm and forced him to sit on the bed, then sat down next to him.  “You have one more exam left to go, don’t give up on yourself now. You’ve never been a throw-away, Matt. You aren’t doing this so the Centre can profit. We’re going to help people and make sure no one else goes through what you did. We’re going to be superheroes.”

 ...

Matt’s assigned examiner for his European History final called Foggy on his cell phone several hours after Matt returned from writing the exam. Matt was lying in bed in a post-exam haze but sat up after the caller identified himself, head tilted to the side, apparently listening in on the call.

"Congratulations. I have to admit I was curious how the Dean's pet project would perform. Well done Mr. Nelson. You must be very proud of the progress you've made with your ward.”

"Matt passed?" 

"With flying colors." 

“Thanks,” Foggy answered. “Thanks for letting us know,” He added with more genuine appreciation.

“I thought you’d want to know asap so you can register his class schedule for the following semester,” He explained. “Have a good Christmas. Oh, and I thought I should mention, the university maintenance department is looking for extra help over the holiday break if you haven't already found a place to sublet your ward.”

“Uh, thanks. You too, have a good Christmas, bye.” Foggy jumped up and pulled Matt up from the bed. “We did it! You did it!”

"We did it." Matt echoed and smiled. “I can be registered for the next semester now?” he asked.

“We did that weeks ago.”

“But I thought... I thought you’d wait until you knew I’d be allowed to go on.”  

“I knew you'd make it. I registered us at the same time.  We’re good.”  Foggy shrugged on his jacket. “This calls for a celebration.  Do you know what we should do?”

“What?”

“It snowed last night; that means we have a fresh layer of snow.”

Matt’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “And?” But he reached for his jacket and boots and put them on.  

Foggy took his hand and pulled him out the door. "When was the last time you made snow angels?" he asked.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm gone for a week now (without internet!!!!), sadly no updates until I return. :)  
> Next up, Christmas at the Nelsons! 
> 
> Let me know what you think of the story, give me ideas of things you'd like to see (or not see) whatever the case may be. Have a great week!
> 
> 1) Foggy's quote take from here: http://allpsych.com/journal/pow/
> 
> Citlali


	28. Casa Nelson

It was time to go home for Christmas. Foggy didn’t intend to stay more than a couple of days. He was nervous. Skype interactions were one thing, actually going home and spending time with his family in person was a different story. 

They’d moved on. It was understandable. Expected. 

Candace had told him they were busy preparing the guest room for him and Matt. The guest room. Not Foggy’s room. How long had they waited before getting rid of his things? Did they keep any of his stuff?

Get real, Foggy told himself. What were they supposed to have done? Keep his room as a shrine? It was unrealistic to expect them to put their lives on hold. The house was small. They couldn't be expected to put their lives on hold for him.

He was always careful when he talked to his family, avoiding serious topics, avoiding issues like cancer or death or just about anything concerning the last year he lived at home and the three years after that. He talked about classes and told stories about what he and Matt were up to; it was enough to fill twenty minutes of an internet conversation, but what was he going to talk about for two whole days? 

“You’re nervous.” Matt laid on his back on his bed, flipping a coin up and snatching it out of the air on the way down. Foggy watched him. 

“I’m sure super senses aren’t necessary to figure that one out.”

“You know, you don’t have to take me along.”

“Really, and where are you going to go?” Foggy picked up a Macy’s catalogue he’d been flipping through earlier while trying think up gift ideas. He shouldn’t have waited until the week before Christmas to buy gifts, but exams had been the only thing he’d let himself think about, “What do you expect me to do? Check you into the Centre for holiday respite care?” He looked up in time to see Matt make a face. It struck him how much progress they’d made since September that Matt could respond to a comment like that with a laugh and a sneer rather than dread. 

“No, of course not. I can visit Mrs. Beaty.” 

“I thought you didn’t want me to leave you with her.” 

“You needed me; I wasn’t going to let you go alone to the clinic. But this is different, it’s your first year back with your family, and you should have it together.” 

Foggy tossed the catalogue on the floor, and the slap made Matt break his concentration. He missed the catch, and the coin hit his forehead and bounced off. He plucked it off the bed and sat up. 

“Matt. My family sent me away.” Foggy said.No. He rearranged his thoughts. “I was dying, I know why they did it, but I can't pretend that it didn't hurt. If you would rather go to Mrs. Beaty's I get it. My family has issues, if you don't want to be around them I understand.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” Matt corrected. “I want to be with you. But, won't it be easier for you if you don't have to take care of me as well?” 

“I thought the deal was we take care of each other,” Foggy stated. 

“Okay then," Matt paused. "How much do they know? Do they know you’re not just my supervisor? Do they know anything about Myria Research?” 

“No. I told them the same story I tell everyone.” 

“So, they think your birth-mother is paying for everything.”

“Yeah.” 

“Foggy.” 

“You’ll come with me?” And Foggy couldn’t suppress the tremor in his voice. He needed Matt, but he wasn't going to make it an order. He’d already ruined Matt’s Thanksgiving with the whole Clinic thing; he didn’t want to ruin Christmas as well.

“Yes. Of course, I will.” 

...

Matt wasn’t sure when he’d formed the mental picture of what he imagined the Nelson’s house to be like. He expected them to be wealthy because Foggy said his father owned a hardware store, and Foggy’s birth mother was a successful lawyer. He’d assumed they would be going to one of the newer, gentrified areas of Hell’s Kitchen. He imagined the Nelson’s home would be a brownstone or a house like what people have in the suburbs. They probably bought their food at Whole Foods and had matching appliances in the kitchen and a decorative theme to the living room. Foggy had never actually described where he grew up, and so Matt thought they were transferring buses when they got off at the corner. They walked about a block east, and then north. There was the smell of old trash; narrow row houses lined the street. Foggy led him up a flight of crumbling cement front steps.

“Watch the third step; it’s kind of not there on the left side.” Foggy tugged his arm to make sure he stepped around. 

This was Foggy’s house?

“You’re missing some very impressive artwork. I’m assuming it must be someone’s initials, but it doesn’t look like any alphabet I’ve ever seen before. It’s kind of like a sideways sloth. If you squint, it’s very artistic.” 

If Hell’s Kitchen could be said to have a wrong side of the tracks, this was it. “You grew up here?”

“Welcome to Casa Nelson.” Foggy said and knocked.

“La Bienvenida a la casa de Nelson,” Matt repeated softly. 

There were three people inside. Footsteps ran up to the door and swung it open, took a step backward to steady himself to avoid getting bowled over completely. 

“Matt, this is Candace.” Foggy pulled away from the teenager, and placed his hand back on Matt’s elbow, ready to guide him inside. 

“Hi, Matt,” Candace surged forward and hugged Matt as well, though it wasn't as enthusiastic it was still a warm welcome. She grabbed Matt’s bag from him and stepped back inside. 

The house smelled like food and cinnamon candles, but it didn’t smell like Foggy.

Two adults were standing in the living room. Foggy put his bag on the floor and hugged them.  

“We got your room ready; you can go ahead and put your stuff upstairs.” Foggy’s mother said. 

“Thanks.” Foggy took his bag, and then took Matt’s bag from Candace and passed it back to him. “Matt, I’ll show you around.” He narrated the kitchen, the layout of the cupboards and the fridge and stove, the living room and couches, the coffee table. The stairs. “Twelve steps,” He added. “Candace’s room is on the right, what used to be my room is on the left and at the  end of the hall is my parent’s room.” 

He opened the door and paused for a moment before going in. “So, my room is a guest room office kind of thing now. There’s a futon, and they put a foam camping mat on the floor. Watch where you step, there isn’t a lot of space.” 

Matt moved to place his bag on the foam mat, and Foggy grabbed his arm. “No. You’re not sleeping on the floor.” 

“I don’t mind.”

“I mind.”

And Matt wasn't about to leet Foggy sleep on the floor either. “The futon is a double, isn’t it? We could share.” 

“We’ll figure it out later.” Foggy dropped his bag on the air mattress and put Matt’s bag on the futon.  

“You okay?” 

“I’m fine,” Foggy answered, his voice sounded unnaturally tight. Not fine. “Columbia isn’t that far away; we could just take the bus home tonight and come back in the morning.” 

“Whatever you want to do,” Matt said. 

They stayed. 

Mrs. Nelson made shepherd’s pie for supper. Foggy kept up a steady stream of conversation, his voice falsely cheerful and animated. Mr. Nelson told Matt some stories from Foggy’s childhood, about times he worked at the hardware store or babysat his sister. “We came home, and every single couch cushion and blanket was on the floor, the entire living room was transformed into a giant fort, and there they were sleeping inside.” 

Candace pulled out a few board games. Foggy insisted on having Matt play too and promised to fill in the gaps of whatever Matt couldn’t do. Sorry! was easy enough to modify. Foggy put pieces of tape on top of Matt’s game pieces. Playing Cranium took a little more work, but with a few modifications, they managed to make it work. 

No one said anything about politics. No one spoke of anything within the last four years. The one time Foggy asked about what was new with a former schoolmate named Brett there’d only been an uncomfortable silence followed by, “He graduated from the police academy, Bess is very proud of him.” 

Matt noticed Foggy didn’t ask about anyone else.

Foggy helped himself to a beer from the fridge. 

“Are you sure you should be drinking?” His father asked. 

“Why not?”

“It won’t interact with any medications?” 

There was another long silence. Matt listened to Foggy's heart race as he twisted off the cap and drank a quarter of the bottle in a quick series of gulps. “I’m not on any medications.” 

Mrs. Nelson stepped passed Foggy into the kitchen and picked up a letter from on top of the fridge. “I didn’t realise it was for you until after I opened it. We didn’t mean to pry.” 

Foggy pulled a paper out from the open envelope and read it; his heart rate increased even more. 

“You told us you were better.” Mrs. Nelson said. 

“I am,” Foggy answered. Everyone’s hearts were racing. “It was just a follow-up appointment. I guess I forgot to change my mailing address on my health card.” 

“A follow-up appointment that lasted four days?" Foggy's dad asked skeptically. "We could have taken care of Matt if you needed us to. That’s a lot of money for temporary ward shelter. It must have been a high-end clinic. Where are you getting the money for that kind of thing? Do you have insurance?”

“Rosalind pays for Matt’s expenses.” Foggy took another sip of his beer, folded up the paper and slid it into his pocket.  “I’m fine..” He reassured them. “Matt, do you want a beer?”

“No, thank you,” Matt answered. Wards weren’t supposed to drink alcohol. Foggy had given him beer a few times in the privacy of their dorm room, but Matt wasn't about to push his luck around people he didn't know. Not even Foggy’s family. 

"Are you sure?" Foggy asked, finishing off his bottle and going back to the fridge for another.

He came back to the table. “Who’s turn is it?” He asked, staring down at the board. 

“Yours.” Candace passed him the dice, and despite the tension still hanging in the air, they continued playing. 

...

Matt and Foggy both slept on the futon. Foggy laid very still, and Matt fell asleep before he heard Foggy breathing relax. 

In the morning, Matt woke up to Foggy rolling out of bed. He sat up and stretched. “What time is it?” 

“Seven thirty. We do Christmas early here.” Foggy explained. “I have a present for you, but it’s not something I want to give you in front of anyone else.” He pulled out a paper bag out of his overnight bag; it was folded and taped shut. “Sorry about the wrapping, this is about as fancy as I get.”

“I don’t mind.” Foggy placed the gift in his hand, and he opened it. There was a circular fabric band inside. He wasn’t sure what it was. 

“Hold out your right arm,” Foggy instructed. 

Matt held out his arm and Foggy took the band from his hand and gently pulled it over his hand and smoothed it out around his wrist, then eased the ID bracelet onto the thin fabric and folded it over, covering the bracelet. 

“I checked the website to make sure this would be okay. It’s compliant with all Centre regulations regarding ID bracelets. Uhm, it’s meant for manufacturing jobs where the chain could get stuck or snagged in machinery. But, I thought you might like it.”

Matt nodded. The fabric felt soft. He’d long ago gotten used to the scratchy feel of the metal links against the skin of his wrist. A band like this would hold the bracelet in place so that it wouldn’t slide down his wrist. Had Foggy noticed how he often held the cuff of his shirt to keep the bracelet hidden? “I like it, thank you.” He reached over to his bag and pulled out something small folded up in a sheet of regular lined paper. “I got something for you, too.” 

Foggy ripped it open. It was a Captain America key chain. “How did you know I wanted this?” 

Matt smiled, pleased that Foggy liked the gift. He'd heard Foggy pick it up in the store a few weeks ago and had bought it right away.

Foggy hugged him, and they headed downstairs.

There were more presents; Matt was surprised when Candace passed him a wrapped package from under the tree. “It’s from us.”  

Matt held it for a moment. It felt like a clothing box, rectangular and flat. He could smell the store bought fabric inside.  

“Go ahead and open it.” Candace laughed. 

Foggy was watching him. He ran his fingers along the ends of the wrapping, carefully peeling back the tape without ripping the paper; the paper felt smooth and glossy with a zig-zagging pattern of even smoother inlaid foil designs.  He paused and turned to Foggy. “What does the paper look like?”

“It’s red,” Foggy informed him. “With green lines and shiny gold tree shapes.”

Matt folded the paper, taking his time. He hadn’t celebrated Christmas in four years, not since being detained by the Centre. Running his finger along he edge of the box, he found the tape and slit it open with his thumbnail. He ran his hands over the fabric; it was smooth and soft. A button up shirt with a collar and cuffs. 

“It’s a dark red colour,” Foggy said. “Kind of like the colour of red wine.”

“Thank you.” 

Candace jumped up and hugged him, and then Mr. Nelson shook his hand, and Mrs. Nelson hugged him as well. 

"Thank you." 

“You’re very welcome,” She said. 

The rest of the gifts were opened, Candice received a sweater and new runners, Foggy got a leather shoulder bag. 

After presents, Foggy insisted on making pancakes, and with Matt’s help most of them didn’t burn, and they sat around for most of the morning feeling full and happy. 

Mrs. Nelson put the turkey in the oven before lunch, and supper preparations began. Matt offered to help in the kitchen and Foggy assured his mom that Matt was perfectly capable of handling a knife despite being blind.

Matt was grateful for the opportunity to help out and prove that he wasn't lazy or useless. He wondered what Mr. and Mrs. Nelson thought about Foggy's blind ward; they hadn't said anything about it yet. Foggy told him they knew about their friendship back in the hospital, and that his parents had helped search for him while Foggy had been away. What did that mean? Did they think Foggy chose him because he felt sorry for him? 

Had he? 

After lunch, Foggy’s phone whistled with a text message. He looked down at his phone and froze. 

Matt paid attention immediately. “Is something wrong?”

“Yeah.” Foggy answered but didn’t elaborate. He tapped a message back, and a moment later the phone whistled again with a reply. 

He tapped another response, pocketed the phone and headed for the door. Matt intercepted him as Foggy pulled on his winter coat and boots. 

“Where are you going?”

Foggy crouched down to do up his laces. “Something is going on with Dylan. I’ll be back before supper is ready; I’m sorry Matt, I have to go.” 

“I’m coming with you.” Matt reached for his jacket. 

“No. Stay here. I have to go, but I’ll explain everything when I get back. Don't leave the house.”  Foggy said and then grasped Matt's arm. "Promise me you won't go anywhere." 

"Why?" 

 Foggy called out towards the living room.  “Dad, I have to go out for a bit, will you take care of Matt for me?” 

Mr. Nelson called back that he would, and Foggy walked out.

Matt was left standing alone by the door.

Foggy left Matt alone with his family. What had felt comfortable and safe only moments ago now shifted into something dangerous and unknown. 

Matt leaned against the wall. He listened as Foggy ran down the stairs and hurried east along the sidewalk.  

“Where did Foggy go?” Mrs. Nelson called from the kitchen. 

“I don’t know,” Matt answered. 


	29. Agitate

Matt debated about whether or not he should follow. He wanted to. Something was wrong. Bad enough to make Foggy leave right away.

Matt tapped his fingers against the wall.

He could still catch up with him if he went right now.

If Foggy had wanted Matt’s help, he would have asked for it.

Mrs. Nelson walked up beside him. “Is everything okay?”

“It’s fine, thank you,” Matt answered automatically. Foggy left him alone with his family. Matt felt comfortable with Foggy; he felt safe and trusted him to run interference when necessary. Foggy's family was not Foggy. Matt didn’t know these people enough to know what they expected of him. 

What were the rules? Was he supposed to follow Foggy's rules or the Centre rules? The Nelsons didn't have to treat him the same as Foggy treated him. Did they have any experience supervising wards?

Foggy had never told someone else to take care of Matt before. Foggy appointed Mr. Nelson as his temporary supervisor. Did Mr. Nelson know that Foggy allowed Matt to say no? Would Foggy’s father let him say no if he needed to?

What would Mr. Nelson expect from him? All supervisors had different expectations.

He didn’t know, and he didn’t dare to ask.

'Better safe than sorry’ wasn’t just an adage. It was a survival guide.

He was still a state-ward, and unless he had confirmation otherwise, it was safer to assume he should follow Centre rules. He could do that.

He wasn’t sure what to think about being left behind, though.

There was still work to do; Mrs. Nelson still needed his help in the kitchen, and Matt welcomed the distraction of something familiar and straightforward. He had a pile of carrots to chop and a bowl of potatoes to peel and boil before mashing them. He worked carefully, mindful of being precise. It felt good to be useful, and Mrs. Nelson’s open appreciation soothed a bit of Matt’s anxiety about being in her and her husband’s care.

“How do you like the university, Matt?” Mrs. Nelson asked, and Candace glanced over from where she was melting butter in a pot to make brownies for dessert.

“I like it very much, thank you,” Matt responded, careful to keep the answer polite but short and precise. A good ward is silent.

“Foggy tells us you’ll be going all the way to to law school with him.” Mrs. Nelson said.

“If I can.”

“Will you work for Rosalind after?” Candace asked.

He didn’t think Foggy had any intention of having him work for anyone other than himself. “It will depend on what my leaseholder wants me to do.” Matt answered, staying safely vague.

“How many placements have you had?” Candace added two cups of sugar and a cup of cocoa to her pot of melted butter.

“This is my fifth,” Matt answered.

“What were they?”

“Mm.” Matt cleared his throat. He didn’t find the subject an easy one to talk about, but she asked him a question, and since Foggy wasn’t here, it wasn't like he could refuse. “I folded linens in the hospital.”

“That’s where you met Foggy?” Candace added, stirring the chocolate mix.

“Foggy liked talking to me while I worked.”

“Ugh. That must have been distracting.”

Mrs. Nelson made an exasperated sigh. “Candace. Stop badgering him.”

Matt cringed at having caused trouble. “I liked listening to Foggy.”

Candace laughed and moved the pot to a corkboard and added the eggs before stirring again. “He’s lucky to have you.”

Matt disagreed. He was a lot of work. He was the one who was fortunate to have Foggy.

“Where did you work after that?” She asked.

“I was sent to a laundering factory.”

“You worked in one of the work-release prisoner factories?” Candace asked.

“Yes.”

“Did you hear about what’s been happening in Boston?”

“No.” He and Foggy had been too obsessed with preparing for exams to listen to the news.

“There have been three factory riots in the last couple of weeks,” Candace told him, “Some people are blaming Captain America’s recent speech for inciting violence.”

Matt hadn’t heard about that either.

Mrs. Nelson clicked her tongue. “It’s a good thing you didn’t work in one of those factories for long, Matthew. I hear those places are dangerous.”

There were worse places, Matt thought.

“How did you get out of the factory?” Candace asked.

“My lease wasn’t renewed. They sent me back to the Market.”

“Then what?”

“A church bought my lease after that.”

“And then?”

Matt focused on the potato in his hand, running his finger along the smoothly peeled surface, looking for skin he’d missed before placing it into the bowl with the others he’d finished. “I was,” Matt cleared his throat as he thought about how to word what he was about to say next. Even if no one else noticed the difference, he needed to make the distinction for himself. “ _My lease_ was put up for auction and bought by an independent leaseholder.”

“What kind of work did you do?”

“Different things,” Matt answered evasively. Even if they did ask directly, he was not going to talk about that. 

“So you helped around the house?” Mrs. Nelson asked.

“Yes.”

“That sounds nice,” she said.

“Mm.” Matt finished another potato and added it to the pile, “How many of these do you want me to peel?” He asked.

... 

After they had finished the preparations in the kitchen, Candace sat on the couch watching youtube videos on her tablet, and Mr. and Mrs. Nelson sat at the kitchen table setting up a game of Scrabble.

“Matt,” Candace called him. “Come, sit with me.”

He had been about to ask permission to go upstairs to listen to the audiobook he’d downloaded on Foggy’s MP3 player, but he sat on the floor beside the couch instead.

She slid down and joined him on the floor sitting so close her arm pressed against his.

“Mom tells me I ask too many questions when I meet someone new; I hope you don’t mind,” sShe said.

It was a statement rather than a question, but Matt decided it was worth taking the chance. “Am I allowed not to answer?” He felt uneasy as her heart rate sped up.

“No, you don’t have to answer,” She said nervously.

“Thank you.”

“That’s- that’s okay,” she answered. “You’re different when Foggy’s here. You seem so normal when he’s around that it’s easy to forget you’re a ward.” She patted Matt’s leg. "He told us we needed to be careful around you."

“Foggy said that?” _Careful how?_

“You'll let us know if you feel uncomfortable with anything we're doing, right?”

Matt nodded. _He couldn't do that._

“Yeah. I think he’s over-protective, you seem fine to me. But, he’s probably being weird because it’s Rosalind who’s paying for you to take care of him. He’s always had a strange relationship with her. It sucks she wants to keep you for herself after. Maybe Rosalind will let Foggy keep being your supervisor, but he should get some formal training. With that kind of investment, you’d think she would insist he knows how to handle you properly.”

“Foggy is an excellent supervisor,” Matt said.

“I still think he should look into some training. It might make him more comfortable with doing normal supervisor things, like letting you wear your corrective collar. Doesn’t he realise how dangerous it is for you if anything happened? Even with the collars, there are tons of stories out there of police using excessive force on wards. He could take weekend seminars that wouldn’t interfere with his school schedule. You could mention something to him; I bet he would be okay with that.”

“I will.” Matt lied.

“Can I see your bracelet?”

Matt pushed up his sleeve, unfolding the wristband Foggy had given him that morning and offering his right arm. She ran a finger over the chain links and the small square engraved with his number on it. “What’s this?” she tapped on the wristband.

“Foggy bought it for me for Christmas, to keep the bracelet from getting caught on things.”

“He likes to pretend you’re a regular person, doesn’t he?”

Matt wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

“This isn’t my first time talking to a ward, you know?” She tapped on the screen again, and the music changed. “I’m even friends with one. My friend Stacy's family has a girl they foster from the Centre program. She’s too young to be in the lease program yet so she mostly just helps around the house doing cleaning and stuff, but we let her hang out with us sometimes. We call her Sister.”

“Sister?”

Candace laughed. “Her original name was Flora, but Stacy used to pretend she was her sister when she was little, so that’s what everyone calls her. She doesn’t seem to mind.”

“Do they treat her as part of the family?”

“No. That wouldn’t be fair. If they treat her like family, it will be harder for her to adjust when she gets sent back to the Centre when she turns fourteen. Stacy’s parents are part of the fostering program; they take in kids like her until they’re old enough to join the lease program. They said It’s better for her than being kept in a group home.”

“How long has the girl been with them?”

“About eight years. She’ll go back to the Centre for her first placement next year.” She tapped on her tablet a bit. “Do you ever worry about that kind of thing? That when your placement with Foggy ends it will be difficult to adjust to a new supervisor?”

“Now is what matters,” Matt answered. "Foggy is my supervisor; he's the one I need to stay focused on." 

Candace patted his leg again. “I'm glad Foggy is nice to you. What do you think about the recent riots and protests that have been happening in Boston?”

“We’ve been studying a lot; there hasn’t been time to listen to the news.”

“You worked in a factory for two years, right? What was it like there?”

“It’s hard work.”

“Some people say the supervisors are abusive to their wards in those places.” Candace pressed.

“In my experience, yes. That doesn’t only happen in factories, though.”

“See, one more reason for supervisors to be correctly trained. Most of wards working in factories are criminals on work-release, aren’t they? That’s why supervisors need to use strong discipline techniques. It must be a dangerous job; they need to keep their wards in line and prevent the kind of violence that is happening in Boston.”

“Unless the violence is a response to unsustainable living conditions.” Matt bit his tongue. She wasn’t Foggy; this wasn't the right time for a debate.

"Mm. Stacy’s dad said work-release wards should just be thankful they aren’t in prison.”

Matt shrugged, forcing himself to stay quiet.

“How is Foggy compared to other supervisors you’ve had before?”

“Foggy is different,” Matt said easily.

“Different good, or different bad?”

“Good. He’s kind.”

“Kindness doesn’t earn respect,” Candace said. “He wouldn’t last long with the kind of wards who work in factories.”

“Probably not.” Matt thought about his first supervisor at the Uniform Supply Factory, and how stupid he’d been to try and escape from someone who didn’t want to hurt him. 

“What do you think of the system?”

Matt considered what to say. He had probably said too much already, but then, ignorance hadn’t helped him when he was her age, and she did ask him what he thought. "I think,” he paused. What was he doing? She wasn’t asking his opinion as a person; she was asking his opinion as a ward. There was a difference, and it was important to remember that. “It’s not an easy system to be a part of.”

“In Social Studies, a representative from the Centre came out and explained to us properly how the system works. My class even got a tour of Centre-Care last semester. Before the Center, prisons were overpopulated, illegal immigrants and homelessness were out of control. There were drug abusers and prostitutes on the streets. The Centre changed all that, they took those people in and found them proper jobs and safe places to live. They made them contributing members of society. Even the economy got better because the work-lease program has made it possible for domestic manufacturers to compete with places like China.” She answered. “Just twenty years ago it was nearly impossible to find anything in the stores made in the USA.”

She was only sixteen years old, a year younger than he’d been when he was detained. When he was her age, if a Centre representative had come and explained to his class why the Centre was such an excellent institution, he probably would have believed them too. He’d been just like her, and now he didn’t even have the right to speak to her without permission.

“At least, as a dependant of the Centre, you have opportunities you wouldn’t have had otherwise.”

Matt clenched his jaw. Opportunities like not going to University and working in laundry facilities for two years before being sold off to be neglected and ignored and locked in a bathroom for several months before being sold off again to people who made videos of him being violated and abused? TThe opportunity to experience four years of systematic degradation. Experiences that stripped him of everything he once was and left him damaged both physically and mentally.

Yes. Fabulous opportunities.

But it wasn’t Candace’s fault. Candace didn’t know what she was talking about; it wasn’t her fault she was ignorant of what the Centre was. She was only repeating what she’d been taught, just like everyone else.

“What is it like being a state-ward?” She asked.

“I don’t like it,” Matt said. He needed to shut up before getting himself in trouble.

_What was it to be a state-ward?_

_It was losing your voice._

_It was losing all your rights._

_It was living in fear of the whim of your supervisor or leaseholder because you had no defense against them._

_It was knowing you have no control over what is done to your body._

_It was being kept in a cage and brought out to be inspected by potential leaseholders who would talk about you as though you were a car or a fridge._

_It was being sold, being haggled over, being told you were worthless because of your disability, that you were lucky to find any placement at all._

_It was losing all your free will and being nothing._

“I’d rather be a person than a possession,” He said, finally finding how to word what he meant without sounding offensive.

“Did you hear the speech Captain America made the other day?”

“No.”

Candace typed something on her tablet. The music stopped and was replaced by the background sounds of an outdoor arena.

_“The time where I come from wasn’t without its troubles. But we must stand strong and speak out against injustice, no matter what form it takes. This is my home now, and though it may be argued that I have only been here a short time, I do believe we all share the responsibility to act in the best interests of the place we live. There is a system built on greed, stepping on the backs of those who have been mistaken as expendable. We must be diligent, and we must be better than we are, and start treating those around us with respect and humanity. We are all worth fighting for, and we must stand together to ensure the protection and freedoms of all those we share this country with.”_

The video ended. “What do you think?” Candace asked.

Matt felt breathless. Captain America said that? “When was that?”

“Last weekend.”

“What do you think of it?” Matt asked her.

“He’s awesome.”

How could she believe that the speech was great and still support the Centre as much as she did? Had he heard it wrong, was he only hearing what he wanted to hear? “Do you mind playing it again?”

She replayed the speech, and Matt listened closely. No, he wasn’t wrong.

“Do you understand what he was trying to say?” Matt asked.

“Oh. Yes. Sorry, I should have realised you’d find it confusing. He’s saying it’s our duty as Americans to take care of each other. The Centre program is there to help people, and we need to focus on making the system better. For example, you’re a dependent of the Centre, so I guess the Centre took you in because you’re blind, right?”

“Sort of.”

“See? It’s good that they have programs that take care of people like you.” She mused. “Imagine where you’d be without their support.”

Yep. Matt imagined it all the time.

“Matt?” Mr. Nelson called his name from the table, jolting Matt out of his thoughts. “Are you alright? You look a little dazed. Would you like something to drink?”

Matt apologised to Candace, stood up and reached out to run his hand along the chairs on his way to the kitchen, where Mr. Nelson was waiting by the fridge. “What would you like?” he asked.

Matt drank Sprite the night before, so he asked for that again. Mr. Nelson poured him a glass and placed it in his hand.

“Thank you,” he said, not only for the drink.

“Are you getting along alright with Candace?” Mr. Nelson asked.

“Yes, sir.” Matt took a sip and cleared his throat; this was his best chance to free himself from Candace and her questions. “Do you mind if I go upstairs and take a nap until Foggy gets back?” 

“Go ahead, Matt. I’ll send Foggy upstairs to wake you when he gets back.” Mr. Nelson replied.

 ...

Everything was already put away upstairs because the plan had been to return to the dorm after supper. Matt and Foggy had stripped the sheets and folded up the futon before heading down for breakfast. The foam mattress was rolled up and put away in the closet, their bags packed and neatly stacked in the corner. He didn’t want to risk sitting on the futon without permission. Matt lied down on the floor and stretched out on his back.

He thought again about what Captain America had said.

_We are all worth fighting for, and we must stand together to ensure the protection and freedoms of all those we share this country with._

Sirens rang out in the distance. There were always sirens. 

Did this mean Captain America was going to stand up for the rights of wards? Captain America had a voice that could change things. He could make a real difference.

Captain America could make things better.

Matt daydreamed about what it would be like to be free again, to be able to make decisions about his future. Would he be able to keep going to school? Would Foggy still want to be his friend? As an investment, Matt could justify the amount of time Foggy was spending on shaping him into being someone worth keeping. Matt looked forward to the day he could finally be productive for Foggy, but if Foggy didn’t have that incentive, would he still find Matt worth the effort?

He didn’t want to lose Foggy as a friend. Even as a free person, maybe he could still work for Foggy; they could still be lawyers together.

He started to relax and allowed his focus to wander.

_Mrs Nelson was contesting a word and looking it up in a scrabble dictionary. “Zax isn’t a real word.” “Yes, it is.” “Look it up then.” Candace was listening to music videos. Matt listened to the hum of electricity through the wall._

_Something small skittered under the floorboards. Did Foggy know there were mice in the house? Was that why he wouldn’t let Matt sleep on the floor?_

_A dog whined in a neighbor’s backyard, scratching on the door to be let in._

He felt himself starting to drift off. He let his eyes close, and his mind wandered.

He heard voices talking in the house next door.

_“Isn’t it just horrible what they’re doing on Christmas.?” An older man said. A woman answered, “Yes, terrible.”_

Matt heard the newscaster. _Breaking news: Traffic halted in Times Square due to unauthorised protesting._

Matt listened.

_Eighteen arrested as protest turns deadly. Three wounded and two dead in today’s unrest._

_It is a day when many ward workers are traditionally allowed away from their duties to visit friends and family. Today, that tradition was sullied as dozens gathered to disturb the peace…”_

_Thugs descended on the square, carrying banners and messages, intent on creating a hostile atmosphere._

Matt jumped up and ran downstairs. All three Nelson’s turned their attention to him as he knelt beside the couch facing Candace. “Do you have a cell phone?”

“Yes.”

“Could you help me send a text?” he was begging, but he didn’t care.

“Uhm, are you allowed?” Candace asked uncertainly.

“A message to Foggy.” Matt elaborated.

“Oh, I guess that’s okay then.” She pulled her phone out of her back pocket and unlocked the screen. “What do you want me to say?”

“Ask if he’s okay. Or where he is. Ask him if he’s anywhere near Times Square.”

Candace tapped on her screen. “Matt is worried, are you okay, where are you, are you near Times Square?” She read out loud. “Is that okay?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Sent,” She stated. “Matt, are you alright? Maybe you should try and go back to sleep?”

“No. I’m not as tired as I thought I was,” Matt answered without thinking. Wait, had she just ordered him to go back upstairs and take a nap? Had he just refused? Her phone whistled.

Candace read out loud, “Foggy says; fine, tell Matt not to go anywhere, I’ll be back soon.”


	30. Advice

 

 

Matt clenched his fists. He knew, just knew, Foggy was somehow involved in the unrest at Time Square, and Matt needed to make sure he was safe. Despite what Foggy said. He stood up and headed for the door. He ran his hand over the coathangers and felt the cuffs of the jackets until he found his own, and pulled it on.  

“Matt, Foggy said to stay here,” Candace called out. Matt reached down and felt for his boots. “Dad, Matt’s not listening.”

Mr Nelson stood up and walked over. “Matt?” 

“I have to find him.” Matt finished lacing his left boot and reached for the right one.

Mr Nelson placed his hand on Matt’s shoulder, “Tell me what’s happening.”

“Protests are going on in Time’s Square. That’s where Foggy went.”

“Foggy told you to stay here.”

“It’s my job to take care of him,” Matt answered. He wanted to take care of Foggy, and Foggy’s father would understand Matt’s need to do his job, wouldn’t he?  

“Stop.” 

Matt put on his right boot and started tying the laces. 

“Matt, I ordered you to stop. Now.” Mr Nelson placed his hand on the back of Matt’s neck and applied pressure with a firm grip. 

Matt froze. He felt like he couldn’t breathe.  He couldn’t think. He couldn’t move.  

“Take off your boots and jacket.” Mr Nelson let go and stood back. Matt’s hands were shaking. He pulled off his boots and placed them back into the closet, shrugged out of his jacket, holding it out but not raising off his knees to hang it back up. Mr Nelson took it from his hand and Matt listened to the hangers shift as it was put back where it belonged.

Why wouldn't his hands stop shaking? Why did he feel frozen to the spot? He needed to find Foggy right away but he couldn't move.

Foggy had told Mr Nelson to take care of Matt. Mr Nelson was his temporary supervisor, and now he’d forced Mr Nelson’s hand, he disobeyed someone who wasn’t Foggy, and there would be consequences for that. 

“Let's go have a chat, Matthew,” Mr. Nelson said. He took two steps to the left and opened a door. The air that flowed into the hall was cold and filled with dust and smelled of wood and metal. “Anna, we’re going to sort this out downstairs,” he called to his wife and then grasped Matt’s arm, pulling him up and steering him toward the door. “There’s a handrail on your right.” 

Matt reached out and felt along the wall until he found it, gripping the rail tightly as he took the first step down. Heh slid his toe along the floor, feeling for the edge. 

He didn’t know anything about Mr Nelson. He heard the light switch flick behind him, and several light bulbs flared with electricity, filling the space with a background hum. The door above closed, clicking shut with a finality that made Matt’s heart race even faster. 

It wasn’t good to be alone somewhere with someone who wasn’t Foggy. Foggy told him his parents ran a hardware store; the basement smelled strongly of workshop. He reached the landing and stepped aside as Mr Nelson edged past. He took Matt’s arm again and led him deeper into the room; a metal chair scraped against the cement floor and he was told to sit down. 

Another chair was pulled up across from him and Mr Nelson sat.  There was a well-worn wooden table between them, and Matt shivered.

He could sense the shapes of the machines around him. Something metal and sharp, a bench saw? A wall of hanging objects of varying sizes. His fingers tingled with the memory of pliers gripping his fingernail, and couldn’t suppress the shudder this time. It takes six months for a fingernail to grow back.  

It wasn't the pain that scared him. 

Foggy treated Matt better than any supervisor ever had and this was how he repaid him, by undermining Foggy’s authority in front of his father. He deserved whatever was coming. 

The least he could do was accept his punishment with dignity. He wasn’t going to cry or beg or embarrass Foggy any more than he already had. 

Matt tried not to dwell on all the possible ways to be hurt by the tools available, he would find out soon enough what Mr. Nelson had planned for him. He kept his breath deep and slow, and unclenched his fists, allowing his fingers to be loose and relaxed. 

Foggy would come back soon. Would he be upset? He had promised Matt never to use correction tools against him, and Matt believed him. Foggy didn't believe in corporal punishments. Surely Mr. Nelson wouldn't do anything Foggy would get too upset at?  Matt didn't want to cause a rift between Foggy and his father. Matt would explain that Mr Nelson was only doing what he had to do, and Foggy would understand. 

No promises were being broken; it wasn’t Foggy hurting him.

“You haven’t always been a ward, have you? There’s no way Columbia would allow someone educated by the Centre to attend their institution. How old were you when you entered the system?”

“Seventeen.” Matt answered. “Between high school and university.” 

“Has Foggy ever told you I was a leaseholder?”

“No, sir,” Matt said. That meant he knew what he was doing.

“I was still with Foggy’s birth-mother back then, and she was the one who urged me to sign up back when the whole fad with the work leases started. She was pregnant with Foggy, and I thought it would be a simple solution to solve staffing problems at the store. I was disappointed in Foggy when he told me he convinced Rosalind to buy your lease.” 

“I’m sorry.”  

“I never wanted him involved in the Centre and the farce of a lease programme they run. But, I suppose Rosalind was a bigger influence on him than I'd anticipated.” Mr Nelson said. “Do they still teach the tenets at the Centre?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Recite the one about obedience.” 

Matt automatically thought about Foggy’s tenet for him about not obeying. That wouldn't go over well. “Acceptance. A good ward is obedient and submissive.”

“Do you know what color the sky is?”

“It’s blue, sir.”

“Tell me it’s green.” 

“The sky is green?” It came out sounding more like a question, but Matt was confused. He was sure this was a test, but he didn’t know what Mr. Nelson wanted from him yet. 

“You know it’s bullshit, don’t you?” Mr Nelson said. “I can make you tell me the sky is green, but it will still be blue.” 

“I don’t understand.” 

“You can repeat that you’re going to be obedient and submissive, but that doesn’t make it any truer than the sky being green.”  Mr Nelson stood up, and walked over to the counter, and sorted through various items. Matt listened to what sounded like metal and wood, but he couldn’t make out any shapes. The rummaging stopped as Mr Nelson found what he’d been looking for, and brought it back.  He took Matt’s hand and held onto his wrist. The grip wasn’t tight, but it didn’t need to be. 

Matt wasn't going to resist. 

He could prove to Mr. Nelson that he could be obedient and submissive and that Foggy was a good supervisor by accepting his punishment with humility. 

He deserved it. 

“You think I’m going to hurt you.” Mr Nelson stated. 

That was the point, was it not? “Yes, sir.” 

“Does Foggy hurt you when you disobey him? Is that why you’re afraid now?”

Matt didn’t know how to answer. Fear equaled respect.He’d be betraying Foggy if he said he wasn't afraid of Foggy disciplining him. He didn't know the correct way to answer. 

“Matt, how does he discipline you?”

He needed to think of something, and the closest he could come was what Foggy jokingly called behavioural un-modification.

_ The most recent incident had been while studying for exams with Dylan, Steven and Tara. They'd ordered pizza. _

_ “Foggy will be pissed at us if he finds out we ordered pizza and didn’t let you have any,” Dylan had said.  _

_ That was true; Foggy would be upset if he thought Dylan had refused to let him eat. But that wasn't what this was. Matt wasn't hungry. There was a difference.  _

_Dylan told Matt to eat. Matt_ _ couldn't let himself forget his status with other people, his and Foggy’s safety depended on it.  _

_ And so he ate the ‘fair share’ that Dylan served him. _

_ And then he’d gone home to Foggy and had spent the rest of the evening throwing up from an upset stomach.  _

_ And thus, a new tenet was formed; 'I don’t have to eat anything I don’t want to.'  _

Of course, Foggy still ordered him to eat sometimes and Matt often went along with it, but Matt understood that he still had the choice to disobey if he wanted to. Foggy woudn't punish him for refusing to eat, even if it was a direct order.  

“We talk.”  Matt said. Mr Nelson’s grip felt like a vice holding him in place even though the pressure was nothing more than his hand resting on his arm. 

Mr Nelson picked something up with his other hand, something that was round and wooden.  

“That’s it? Foggy talks to you?” Mr Nelson asked.

_No, of course that wasn't enough, there had to be something, anything Matt could say that would make it sound like Foggy was doing his job properly._ “I recite tenets,” Matt said quickly, stalling for time. But Mr Nelson already said reciting things wouldn’t work because the sky wasn’t green. 

“Why do you think we’re down here, Matt?” Mr Nelson asked.

“I deserve to be punished.” Matt answered. It wasn’t a new question. _Justify why I am doing this to you._  

The answers were always the same. _I am disobedient, I am too much trouble, I am worthless._

“I shouldn’t have tried to leave after Foggy told me to stay," Matt explained.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” Mr Nelson placed something cold in the palm of Matt’s hand. It didn’t hurt. Mr Nelson released his grip on Matt’s wrist and let him go.

It took Matt a moment to realise nothing more was going to happen. He explored the object with his fingers. It was a carving with three sides connected by intertwining lines. 

“It’s a triquetra, a Celtic knot.”  Mr Nelson told him. “It means inner strength.”  

Matt ran a finger along the intersecting lines, but his hand was still trembling and he was afraid to break it, so he put it down on the table where it would be safe.  

“It’s your job to take care of Foggy, isn’t it?” 

"Yes, sir." 

“You are very loyal.” Mr Nelson continued. “I like to think my son is a good kid, but I wonder if I know him at all anymore. Those tenets they make you learn at the Centre, they aren’t just about control, they’re about staying safe. Any supervisor is more likely to be kind to a ward who is easy to manage.”

Matt knew that wasn’t true. 

“Matt, is Foggy good to you?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then why are you so frightened of him?” Mr Nelson asked.  

“Foggy is a good supervisor,” Matt said resolutely. 

“I know you don’t know me, but I want you to know if Foggy is hurting you in any way, you can come to me. I'll try to help you.” Mr Nelson sighed. “Matt, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Let’s go back upstairs.”  

Matt handed back the triquetra, but Mr Nelson told him to keep it. He led him back up the stairs, turned out the light, and closed the door behind him.  

“Is everything alright, dear?” Mrs Nelson asked. 

“It’s fine. I had a chat with Matt about the importance of being obedient.” He said. “Matt, your punishment for disobeying your supervisor is to go in time out. That corner over there will do.”  

“Dad," Candace called from the couch. "He can’t see what you’re pointing at; he’s blind remember?”  

“Oh.” Mr Nelson placed his hand on Matt’s back and pushed gently to lead Matt across the room the staircase. “Three steps up.” Mr Nelson narrated. Mr Nelson positioned him with his back to the wall. “Stay here, either until Foggy comes home, or I say you may move. I want you to think about what I told you.”  

Matt nodded. 

“You don’t have to stand.” 

“Thank you.” Matt said and knelt down. 

Mr Nelson sighed and returned to the table to finish his game of scrabble.  

Matt turned his attention back towards the news on TV next door, listening to the reporter at the scene describe the violent atmosphere in Times Square and wishing he were with Foggy, where he belonged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up... Foggy's back and the sky still isn't green.  
> "Did my dad tell you that? I’ve heard that one about a thousand times."


	31. Green Skies

The door slammed open, and boots stomped to dislodge the snow before being kicked off. Foggy ran inside saw,  grabbed Matt’s arm and pulled him up the stairs. “We need to talk”.

 

He ushered Matt into the guest room and shut the door. “Wards are protesting the Centre in Times Square,” Foggy said.  

“I know.”

“How do you know that?”

“It’s on TV,” Matt said, and then sensed Foggy’s confusion. “Next door.” 

“Oh.” Foggy took a breath. “Oh. Okay. Yeah, I was at Times Square. Dylan sent me a text that Steven got arrested, and he was freaking out. I helped him get to the subway, and he’s on his way to his sister's place in Brooklyn.”

“Are you okay?” Matt asked. 

“I'm all right.” 

No. He wasn't. Matt was sick of lies and half truths. When was Foggy going to trust him? Matt reached out and jabbed his index finger into Foggy’s ribs on the right side, where he knew it would hurt.

“Ow. Shit. What the hell?” 

Matt cocked his head to the side and waited, the scowl on his face daring Foggy to lie again.  

“I got a little banged up in the crowd,” Foggy admitted. “But I’m fine. Really. It's just a bruise.”

“You should have taken me with you,” Matt stated. “You could have gotten hurt.” 

“It's better that you stayed here, Matt. While I was out, I got an email from the Centre. Leaseholders and supervisors are being directed to place their wards on lockdown. Public transport is restricted to citizens only. I even saw the police tackle a ward in the street for no reason. He was just walking on the sidewalk, and they arrested him. I got the whole thing on my phone; it's crazy.” 

Matt remained silent. He would have paced if there was enough room. “I understand you wanted to help, but Dylan’s issues with Steven have nothing to do with us. People have died today.”

“I wasn’t anywhere near where things got out of control."

"You just said you were close enough to take a video of a police officer beating up a ward. Don't tell me you weren't in any danger."

"I had to help him. Dylan isn’t from the city; he had no idea what he was doing.” Foggy took a breath. 

"Dylan isn't stupid. He knew what he was getting into." Matt reminded Foggy. 

They were both silent for a minute. Matt was annoyed, and he could hear Foggy’s heart beating a rapid rhythm as well. How could he be so reckless? Did he have so little disregard for his own safety?

“Hey, not to change the topic or anything, you can keep lecturing me later if you want, but is everything okay? Why were you kneeling on the stairs?”

Matt had half hoped Foggy hadn't noticed. It would be better if he told Foggy himself though rather than waiting for Mr. Nelson to explain what happened. “I disobeyed an order.” 

“What happened?”

“I wanted to find you,” Matt said. “Your father stopped me. You told him to supervise me." 

“Oh. Oh shit. That wasn’t what I meant. I meant for him take care of you, like, make sure you weren’t thirsty or bored. Fuck, Matt, are you okay? He didn't hurt you or anything did he?” Foggy said. 

"No, he didn't hurt me," Matt said, "But if he did, it would have been my fault.” 

“Matt, it will never be okay for someone to hurt you. What did he do?” 

“He talked to me in private, and then told me to sit in time out.”

“Really. A time out? What, how old does he think you are? Six?”

“I didn't mind, Foggy. You know it would have been within his rights to do much worse than that.”

“Yeah. Right. I’m sorry.” Foggy sighed. “He shouldn’t have punished you at all. I told them we did things differently; I should have explained better.” 

“I'm sorry, I let you down.”

“How did you let me down?”

“I disobeyed you in front of your family. I made you look like a bad supervisor.”

“Matt, I thought we were in agreement that being a bad supervisor was a good thing.” 

Matt let out a frustrated breath. “That’s just for us.” 

“If anyone thinks less of me for being decent and treating you like a human being, then I really couldn’t care less what they think.”

Foggy didn't care, but Matt did. He wanted to make Foggy's life better, not more difficult, and that was all he seemed able to do.  

There were petitions against Matt being allowed to walk around the school grounds without a collar on, creating ward-free safe places where students could study without the stress of being near uncollared wards. Matt tried not to let it bother him. He knew that none of the hatred was personal, those people didn’t know him. The news vilified wards on a daily basis. Stories about wards attacking their supervisors, destroying company property, escapees who would stop at nothing to avoid recapture. Wards in media were depicted as drug abusers, rapists, and thieves. No wonder people thought he needed to be kept under strict control.  

“You’re sure you’re okay?” Foggy asked. “Nothing else happened? Just the time-out?”

“Nothing else happened,” Matt confirmed. He rubbed absently at his temples and pulled off his glasses to place on the table behind him. "I'm just tired."

“I shouldn’t have run off like that and left you with them.” Foggy stepped closer and pulled Matt into a hug. 

Matt leaned into Foggy's body warmth, thankful for the comfort; he wasn't used to second-guessing everyone around him anymore. He didn't have to do that with Foggy.  The stress of the day was catching up with him, and he just wanted it to be over. 

"Foggy, I'm tired."

"You should sit down, buddy. You look exhausted."  

He sat down on the floor.

“Matt, why are you on the floor?”

“I don’t know," because he didn’t have permission to sit on the furniture, but that wasn’t right. Foggy was back now. Matt pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. The headache that had been building was now pounding with full force. "Where do you want me to be?”  

He didn't know the answers, and not knowing the answers was dangerous. 

“Hey, don’t worry, okay?” Foggy pulled him back up and led him over to the futon. “Are you feeling alright? Can I get you something to eat or drink?”

“No, I’m fine,” he was having trouble focusing, the reporter's words coming from the neighbor's TV set were muffled and indistinct. He couldn’t understand half of them. 

“Matt, I have another tenet for you.”

"Can we do this later?" 

"No." Foggy asserted.

Matt waited. Foggy settled himself onto the futon beside him. “Repeat after me; No one is allowed to hurt me, and I don’t deserve to be hurt,” 

Matt repeated dutifully, “No one is allowed to hurt me, and I don’t deserve to be hurt.” 

“Say it again.” 

“Saying it doesn’t make it true, Foggy,” Matt said instead. “The sky isn't green.”

“What? Oh. Did my dad tell you that? I’ve heard that one about a thousand times. You know what I think? He’s right, the sky isn’t green, but, somewhere along the way, you started to believe it. The sky isn’t green, and you don’t deserve to be hurt. The sky is blue, and you deserve everything good.”

“The sky is blue,” Matt said. 

Foggy nodded. “We’re better together, and we’ll take care of each other.” 

“Foggy,” Matt said. “Don't leave me behind again.” 

“God, Matt, I'm so sorry. I should have thought things through better.” Foggy said. Matt listened to his heartbeat and breathing pattern, and Foggy was taking it seriously. "But you couldn't come with me today; it wasn't safe."

"It wasn't safe for you, either."

"You're right. I'm sorry," Foggy said. 

Matt sighed. Foggy wasn't saying he wouldn't do it again. “You need to have a talk with your sister about the Centre.” 

“Why? What did she say?”

“Did you know they’re sending reps into schools now?” Matt asked. “She has no reason to think her teachers are biased; she just parrots back what they tell her. Isn’t it enough that they have their propaganda everywhere else, now they have to take it to kids in schools? ” Matt sighed.

“What did you tell her?”

“She asked me if I like being a state-ward, I told her the truth. I don’t. I said I’d rather be a person than a possession.” 

“You are a person.” Foggy insisted.

“We listened to a speech Captain America gave at a freedom rally. Have you heard it?”

“No.”

“Remind me to find it on the net for you later. Foggy, what he said, it was fantastic. People might actually listen to him.” Matt reached over and placed his hand on Foggy’s leg. “I think he might be able to change things.” 

“I hope so,” Foggy said. 

“I was worried about you. I’m glad you’re back.”

“Thanks. I’m sorry I worried you. Will you be alright up here while I go downstairs?” Foggy asked. “I need to talk to my mom and dad about staying over another night.”

“You aren’t leaving?” 

“I’m not going anywhere without you.” 

“Okay.” 

Before going downstairs, Foggy paused. “Do you want to listen to some music or anything?”    

“No, I’m listening to the news.” 

“Matt?” 

“Next door.” Matt reminded him again. 

“Yeah, okay.” Foggy came back in the room and shut the door. “Do you know what channel they have it on?” 

“I don’t know.”

He heard Foggy cross the room and pick something up. He came over and sat next to Matt and pressed something; an electric hum started from beside the closet and Matt winced from the sudden onslaught of noise before Foggy turned the volume down and started flicking through the channels.  “Tell me when you hear the right station.”

“That one.” Matt stopped him when he heard the distant and close voices overlap, and Foggy passed him the remote. 

Foggy took Matt’s hand and moved his finger over several buttons. “This is the channel up and down, and this one is for the volume. The numbers are here if you know what station you want. The bottom row starts with one.” He got up and went to the closet and pulled something off a high shelf, shook it out, and came back to the futon. 

He felt Foggy’s hand on his head, fingers combing through his hair and it felt nice, and he leaned into it.  “Lie down,” Foggy whispered, and Matt obliged.  The remote fell to the floor, and he didn’t bother to reach for it. Foggy draped the blanket over him. It smelled like dust, but it was soft. “I’m just going downstairs to talk to my dad. I’ll come get you when it’s time for dinner.”

“No thanks.”

“Your choice, but I’d like you to join us.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“That’s fine.”  Foggy picked up the remote from where it had fallen and placed it back in Matt’s hand before walking out.  

Matt listened to the news. 

_“Maybe a minute, two minutes ago we heard a gunshot and watched people scattering," The reporter said. "And we're watching people on the roofs of cars, on the tops of cars and, er,… Obviously, there's a smell of marijuana here as well." (1)_

  
_“Anti-terrorism units have been dispatched. We hope here at WOLF News, for everyone’s sake, that the resolution to today’s unrest will be swift. In the meantime, if you lease any wards at home or in the workplace, keep them on lockdown, monitor their activity,  do not allow any wards under your supervision out on the streets or to assemble in groups. Use of isolation rooms and restraints are advised. Any wards found in public areas will be detained and their leaseholders fined.”_

...

Foggy’s parents said he and Matt could stay for as long as they needed. Foggy winced at the thought, hoping it wouldn't be for more than one more night. 

“Supper will be ready soon,” Anna informed him. 

“Matt’s not sure if he wants to come down for supper; he’s taking a nap now. But, if he does join us don’t pressure him to eat.” 

Anna frowned, and Candace narrowed her eyes. “You put him on meal restriction?” she asked.

“No,” Foggy said. 

“It’s Christmas, Foggy.” Anna started packing away the scrabble game she’d been playing with his father. “I don’t care what the boy has done; he deserves to eat.” 

“Of course, he does.” Foggy agreed. “And no, he isn’t being punished. He  doesn't _want_ to eat.” He followed her into the kitchen and stood back while she opened the stove and checked the temperature of the turkey. Candace was right behind him. 

“I want to hear you tell him that he’s allowed to have dinner,” Anna said.

“I never told him he couldn't.” 

“My friend Stacy’s dad says wards should always wear corrective collars for their safety. You never know when something might happen.” 

“What does that have to do with dinner? And by the way, Stacy’s dad sounds like an asshole.” Foggy blurted. 

“Foggy,” his dad said sternly. 

Candace stood her ground. “If he was wearing a collar, at least you wouldn’t have to resort to starving him, you could just give him a little shock and get it over with.”

“Candace,” Foggy said. “Do you have any idea what it feels like to be shocked with one of those things?” 

“No.”

“Want to find out? Matt has one; I’ve got it in my overnight bag upstairs.” 

“For god’s sake, Foggy.” His dad slapped his hand on the table. “Knock it off.” 

“Do you really have it upstairs?” Candace asked.

“No, I left it back at the dorm.” Foggy admitted. 

“Dinner’s ready.” Anna announced with false cheer. “Who wants to set the table?”  

...

Matt came down for supper. 

“Matt, you know you’re allowed to eat, right?” Foggy said while staring at his mom. 

“Yes. Thank you.” Matt answered demurely. 

"Mom thinks Foggy is trying to starve you as punishment. Is that what Foggy is doing, Matt?" Candace asked. 

Matt looked like a deer caught in headlights. 

No wonder his family thought Matt was being abused. Had he been acting like this all day? He looked like an actor in a social anxiety commercial. Foggy should have guessed that Matt wouldn’t be comfortable around his family. In Matt’s experience, there weren’t a lot of people who didn’t turn out to be complete jerks. 

"Okay. So." Foggy started, catching everyone's attention. "We have a delightful assortment of your typical Nelson Christmas fare here. There is the infamous turkey, cranberry sauce, peas, carrots, mashed potatoes, meatballs, and cabbage rolls. Matt, what would you like?"

"Can I have some water, please." 

Foggy stood up and took Matt's glass with him to the kitchen and poured him some cold water from the jug in the fridge. He placed it on the table before sitting back down. "It's at your two o'clock."

"Matt," Anna cooed. "Sweetheart, Foggy told us you are allowed to eat." 

Matt looked ready to jump up from the table and run. Foggy sighed. "Mom, I never told him he couldn't eat, would you please stop acting like I'm a super-villain. You're the one who is freaking him out."

"I'm okay," Matt said tightly. 

"Finally, he speaks." Foggy joked. "Will you please tell my mother that I never said you can't eat?"

"I'm allowed to eat," Matt said dutifully. 

"Now tell them how awesome I am," Foggy urged.  

He watched Matt's lips tighten, and grinned. Matt was getting annoyed. Good. 

"Foggy has never withheld meals from me." Matt said. 

Anna apparently took that as her cue to start heaping food onto his plate. Matt didn't stop her. 

Candace turned to Foggy next. "I was talking to Matt earlier about how you should take some supervisor training. There are even on-line courses."  

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Because it’s what you’re supposed to do. How do you expect to keep him safe if you don’t have any training?" 

Foggy rolled his eyes. "You do realise that the last thing most supervisors care about is their ward's safety, don't you? It's all about productivity. How does that tenet go, Matt?"  

"A good ward works tirelessly and is worth only as much as he produces." Matt answered. 

"Is there anything in there about safety?" Foggy asked. 

"No." Matt picked up his fork and poked it around on his plate, feeling out the different foods before settling on a bite of mashed potatoes. "Supervisors only care that you’re healthy enough to keep working."

"But Matt doesn't work," Candace said. "You told me you don't even sublet him on weekends." 

"Matt has a job." Foggy retorted. "He takes care of me.  It's a full-time, twenty-four-seven kind of thing," Foggy added. "Like, making sure I don't overdose on caffeine while studying for exams." 

Matt snorted, and then hastily cleared his throat to cover it up. 

Candace giggled.

Foggy grinned. "And saving me from expired sandwiches." 

And that time Matt did laugh out loud. "It's my solemn duty to bring Foggy fresh sandwiches. It's true." 

Foggy watched him start mixing the peas in with the mashed potatoes. "What are you doing?"

"Hmm? Oh, they're easier to pick up that way." Matt explained. "Unless you want to watch a blind guy with a fork chase peas around on his plate for a few hours." He lifted up his fork with the mix for a moment for Foggy to see before taking another bite.  

"That's cool." Foggy tried the same thing.  

"Foggy, Matt was telling us this morning about how you met."  Anna prompted. 

Foggy stopped eating. He stopped breathing for a moment too. He'd thought there was an unspoken agreement not to discuss anything about the hospital or what happened after. 

Matt elbowed him gently. "I told them how you used to come and talk to me while I worked." 

"Yeah." Foggy croaked. That was about as coherent as he could get. 

"Do you remember the time you hid under the folding table in a pile of linens when my supervisor came by?" Matt asked. 

"Uhm." He didn't want to talk about the hospital.  

"I threw a sheet over you." Matt pressed. "I think you were under there for nearly half an hour."  He laughed again. "And you kept passing me sheets from the bottom of the pile. All I could think was how it must have looked like to have an arm keep poking out and handing me another sheet every time I reached down. As stupid as he was, I'm pretty sure my supervisor would have caught on if he'd seen that."

Foggy remembered. He also remembered what a bastard Matt's supervisor had been, and how he'd activated Matt's collar for not working fast enough because the pile wasn't getting any smaller. But, it sounded like Matt thought of it as a happy memory. "I think I almost fell asleep under there." 

Matt laughed again. "I think your snoring would have given it away pretty quick, too."  

"You could have said I was a big rat." Foggy added.

"There weren't any rats in the hospital." Foggy's dad chimed in. 

"Yes, there were." Matt corrected him. "In the basement, mostly around the furnace room." 

Edward looked at Foggy with a raised eyebrow and Foggy countered with a double eyebrow raise. It was the first time Matt had spoken to anyone at the table without being spoken to first. 

Candace started talking about a shopping trip she recently took with her friend Stacy. Matt asked her a question about one of the stores she mentioned, a place he'd been to before, and whether or not the old man who smelled like onions and spoke with the high voice still worked behind the counter. 

All in all, dinner ended up going much better than Foggy had expected.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: Don Lemon reporting from Ferguson.
> 
> Thanks a million to everyone who reviewed! I appreciate it immensely. :) 
> 
> Next up...  
> “If you are experiencing an emergency please hang up and dial 117 for enforcement assistance. If you are in need of general assistance services please consult with our website at w w w dot Centre dash care dash assistance dot com or press 1 now.”


	32. 504 Gateway Timeout

Candace chose the after dinner movie. Foggy had been hoping to leave before the traditional Nelson family after-Christmas dinner movie; _It_ _’s a Wonderful Life_.

Every year. The same movie.  Foggy understood that it was tradition, and he remembered at some point in his life actually enjoying the experience. Apparently three years away didn’t make the heart grow fonder. But it was tradition, and he and Matt took a spot on the couch with Candace while his parents settled themselves onto the loveseat.

“Have you see it?”

“I have,” Matt smiled.

Foggy found himself paying more attention to his friend than to the screen.

 The movie was halfway through, the hero teetering on the brink of a complete mental breakdown. Yep. Foggy wished he could care. Matt seemed interested.

But then Matt tensed, his entire body going rigid, he straightened his back and groped at Foggy’s thigh for his hand, squeezing his fingers to the point of pain.

“What’s wrong?”

“Come upstairs with me,” Matt whispered.

“Sure.” Foggy followed Matt up the stairs. Matt closed the door and stood nervously in the center of the room. Something had obviously shaken him, was it something about the movie? Some kind of flashback? Was it his stomach?

“Do you feel sick? I told you not to eat if you didn’t—”

“It’s not that.” Matt reached around his back, scratching at a spot on his lower back.

“The implant?” Foggy asked.

“It doesn’t feel like its charging. But something is happening.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. It feels warm.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Sort of? Yes. I don't know what it is.” Matt started pacing in the small space. “Do you think with what happened today they’re turning the curfew back on?”

“I’ll check your profile on the website.” Foggy pulled his tablet out of his bag and opened the bookmark he’d made. The image froze on the circular _waiting to load_ icon, and Foggy refreshed the page.

 

_504 Gateway Timeout_

 

“Fuck.” Foggy refreshed the page again.

“Foggy?”

“The page is down.” Foggy opened the Centre homepage and waited. Same result. “It’s only ten p.m. I could get a cab to the university and bring your collar back, just in case.”

“You aren’t going anywhere without me,” Matt said resolutely.

“The city is on lockdown. If you get caught outside, you’ll be detained,” Foggy reminded him. He pulled out his phone and called the Centre information line. It connected him to the automated system.

Matt stood still and listened as Foggy navigated the menu.

" _Hello, and thank you for calling Centre Assistance. If you know the extension of the person you wish to reach, please enter it now._ _To speak with the operator, press 0 at any time._ "

Foggy pressed zero.

" _Our staff is here to serve you Monday through Friday 9 am and 6 p.m., Eastern Time. You can visit us on the Web at "w w w dot Centre dash care dash assistance dot com_. _If you would like to leave a message, please do so at the tone, and we will return your call as soon as possible. Thank you_."

The automated line disconnected. Foggy redialed.

" _Hello, and thank you for calling Centre Assistance. If you know the extension of the person you wish to reach, please enter it now._

_"To speak with the operator, press 0 at any time._

_"To speak with a Market Sales Representative, press 1._

_"For Billing, press 2._

_"For Support Services, press 3._

_"For information about our company and our community benevolence programs, press 4._

_"To repeat these options, press 5."_

“Support services,” Foggy narrated for Matt’s benefit and pressed 3.

_“If you are experiencing an emergency, please hang up and dial 117 for enforcement assistance. If you are in need of general assistance services, please visit our website at w w w dot Centre dash care dash assistance dot com, or press 1 now.”_

Foggy pressed 1.

_“Thank you for calling General Information Services. Please enter your account number at the tone, followed by the hash sign.”_

Foggy entered his account number.

 _“_ _Please enter the identification number of the ward you are inquiring about_ _. Letters should be replaced with their corresponding number.”_

Foggy entered Matt’s ID.

_“Please wait on the line while we access your records.”_

Foggy suppressed the urge to toss the cell phone across the room.

Matt came and sat down beside him. “I can handle this. How about I take the phone and you keep trying to find information on the web?”

“Touch screen, Matt.”

“Hands-free car mode, Foggy,” Matt reminded him.

“Right.” Foggy activated the hands-free option, and the shitty elevator music came through loud, if not clear. He passed the phone over and Matt gave him the tablet.

“There have to be other people out there wondering what’s going on,” Matt reasoned.

“Well, from what I’ve seen, you might be the only one with an owner—” Foggy stopped. “Fuck. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“With a supervisor who gives a shit.” Foggy sighed and typed something into his screen. “I’ll take a look at the message boards.”

Aside from the holding music, an instrumental version of Rick Astley's ‘I’m Never Gonna Give You Up’, the room was quiet.

“Find anything?” Matt asked.

“A lot of people comparing methods of— No. Nothing useful.”

“Methods of what?” Matt’s mouth was set in a grim line.

To hide what he was reading from Matt wasn’t fair. Any other person would have been able to lean over and look at the screen to see for themselves. Matt didn’t have that option; he was relying on Foggy to be honest with him.

As much as it pained him to describe any of the sick shit he was reading online, the last thing Matt needed now was to be shielded from what was going on out there as though he were a sheltered child, “They’re discussing methods of subduing their wards. for the lockdown”

The music suddenly stopped and was replaced with a ring, followed by, _“Please hold the line. Your call is important to us._ ” And then back to the music.

Thirty seconds later, it rang again.

Someone human came on the line. “Centre Initiative Support Services. Isobel speaking.”

Matt shoved the phone at Foggy. “Yes. Hi. I’m looking for information. My ward—”

“Identification number please.”

 “3A6H9N.”

“Thank you.”

“Yes. Do we need to— is everything okay with his curfew? Do I need to do anything?”

“Hold the line for a moment, sir, while I access your records.”

The music started again. This time, it was the instrumental version of George Michael's ‘Faith’.

The music stopped and Isobel’s voice returned. “The GPS chip in your ward's immobilizer implant is active. Please verify your current location, sir.”

Foggy did. 

“3A6H9N is on our list for immediate retrieval and questioning in regards to the recent terrorist activity. The anti-terrorism unit has been dispatched for pick up.”

“No. Matt is fine here. Terrorist activity? Are you talking about the protests in Times Square? Matt had nothing to do with that.”

“Please remain at your current location for retrieval. Your cooperation is appreciated.”

“Wait, hold on!”

“Pickup times will vary between five and ten hours. A representative will be assigned to your case file to negotiate a fair productivity reimbursement.”

“No. This isn’t right. What can we do? Can we make an appointment or something instead?”

“The anti-terrorism unit has already been dispatched. Ward 3A6H9N will be retrieved within five to ten hours at your current location. Failure to comply will result in criminal negligence and obstruction of justice charges.”

Matt gripped his wrist. “Don’t argue with her,” he whispered.

“How long will it take to question him?”

“That will depend on the investigator assigned to his file. If your ward is suspected of collaborating with terrorists, or of committing acts of terrorism, a sales agent will attempt to find a suitable replacement. Please have the ward outfitted in regulation collar and restraints and prepared for pickup.”

“I’m not at home. I don’t have any of that stuff with me,” Foggy said.

“Do you have access to proper isolation protocols, or do you require immediate assistance?”

“No. Immediate assistance is not necessary. Lockdown is fine. Everything is good here.” He glanced over at Matt beside him. "We do _not_ require assistance.”

“Please follow the directions listed our Centre-care support handbook. Temporary correctional devices will be provided at pick up. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Foggy hung up and put the phone down beside him, “What the fuck, this is garbage. Matt. What the hell is going on?”

He felt Matt’s hand on his knee and looked over. Matt was pale.

“It will be okay. It’s just questioning,” Matt said. “I didn't do anything wrong.”

“Yeah. We shouldn’t be worried,” Foggy lied. Matt was being accused of terrorism, there was nothing remotely okay about that. Foggy google searched information on whatever the hell Isobel from the Centre meant about isolation protocols. A WikiHow article (with pictures) came up.

  1. Find a room in your house without windows, a bathroom, closet, or empty storage room should suffice.
  2. Lock or place a wedge beneath the door to keep it securely shut.
  3. If the ward is agitated or displays signs of resistance or violent behaviour, call 117 immediately, and use whatever force is necessary to keep the ward under submission until emergency assistance arrives.



"What are you reading?" Matt asked. 

Foggy read the page out loud. "I'm not doing this shit to you."

“Your father is a former leaseholder; he might have some tools packed away somewhere, some old restraints you can use for me.”

“To hell with that.”

Matt squeezed Foggy’s knee. “I don’t—” Matt stopped talking, a pained expression on his face.

“Matt, what?”

“I’d rather wear restraints. I don’t like being locked in.” Matt’s voice was tight.

Foggy pulled him into another hug and wanted to never let him go. Damn everyone who ever locked Matt up anywhere. “We’re not doing any of those. I’ll figure something out, and we’ll be okay,” Foggy said. “I need to go talk to my parents about what’s going on. Do you want to come with me?”

“Can I stay up here, please?”

“Okay. I’ll be right back,” Foggy said and ran downstairs.

...

He grabbed the remote off the coffee table and stopped the movie. He explained what happened.

No one said a word. Not at first. “What did Matt do?” Candace asked.

“Nothing. We haven’t been doing anything other than studying for weeks.”

“He didn’t even know about Captain America’s speech or the riots in Boston,” Candace added. “This isn’t fair.”

Foggy’s dad got up and grabbed a few sheets of paper off the side table. “We’ll sign statements; Matt has been with us all day. Do you think that will help?”

“Yes. Thanks.”

Anna stood. “Foggy, that boy is your responsibility. You have to help him.”

Did she really think he wouldn’t do everything in his power to keep Matt safe? “What can I do?”

Mr. Nelson stood up. “They’re already on their way. Anything you do at this point will probably be seen as confrontational.” 

“So, all I can do is just sit back and let them take him? That isn't right.” 

"It will go worse for him if you put up a fight. You have to let them take him, your job will be doing everything in your power to get him back." 

There had to be another option. Foggy got a couple of glasses of water from the kitchen before heading back upstairs. He stopped before going up. “Dad?”

“Yes?”

“Do you, by any chance,” The words stuck in his throat, “Do you have any old restraints hanging around anywhere? They told me to either restrain him or put him in isolation. I'm not locking him up.”

Edward did not look happy. “I’ll see what I can find that might make do,” he offered and went downstairs with Candace following close behind him.

Foggy took a deep breath, feeling both relieved and disappointed at the same time. 

Matt was exactly where he’d left him. Foggy pressed the glass of water into his hand. “My dad is going to look and see what he can find. Here, drink this.”

Matt drank and handed it back. “I’m sorry.” 

Foggy sat down beside him. “Don’t even start thinking this mess is your fault.”

Matt stretched and then reached around again to scratched at his back.

"Does it still hurt?"

Matt nodded. 

"Is there anything I can do?"

Reaching over, Matt took Foggy’s arm and guided it to his back, under his shirt to the vertical scar just below his ribs. "Press here," he said and pushed Foggy’s hand against the spot, holding it there until Foggy took over and applied pressure on his own. Foggy could feel no indication of the heat Matt claimed to be able to sense coming from the implant, but he didn’t doubt it was real. 

“Is this okay?”

“It helps. It feels less- less distracting.” Matt leaned against him, head cradled on Foggy’s shoulder. “I don't understand. Why do they want to question me?” he asked, his voice betraying his fear.

“I don’t know,” Foggy said, but he wondered if someone had seen him near Times Square today. What if Matt was being taken away from him because of something he did?

“What if they don’t let me come back?”

“They will.”

“If I’m still there when school starts—”

“That’s not going to happen. I promise,” Foggy said and pressed a kiss to the side of Matt’s head. 

_There was no way he was letting that happen._

 

 

 

Next up… Deconstruction Part 1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Update: Tomorrow!  
> (Daily updates until Wednesday!)


	33. Deconstruction 1/3

(matt) 

 _It was time. A vehicle drove slowly down the street, circling the block twice before finally parking in front of the Nelson’s house. The rumble of the engine allowed Matt to sense the dimensions; it was slightly bigger than a minivan, closer in size to a public works vehicle.  There were people in the back, silent and unmoving, but their hearts were racing. In the front seat sat two men listening to a late night talk show, “We’ll get him at the next commercial break.” One of them said._  

 _Matt checked his watch, running his finger over the tactile dial. Three forty a.m. Foggy had stayed up with him most of the night, until they had both fallen asleep at the same time, apparently, because Matt couldn’t remember who succumbed to sleep first. He was still pressed against Foggy’s side. A fair-sized spot of drool on Foggy’s t-shirt marking the occasion._  

 _“Foggy.” Matt shook his shoulder. “They’re here.”_  

 _There was no drowsiness or confusion from Foggy, who woke up in seconds, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes._  

 _The delay was good. It gave them a few extra minutes to get ready, for Matt to quickly go to the bathroom, to change. Foggy suggested he wear a pair of Mr. Nelson’s old gym sweats and a t-shirt. Something they wouldn’t miss not getting back. He quickly took off his watch and the wristband Foggy had given him for Christmas, then took off his glasses and placed everything carefully on the top of the desk. He toed off his socks and stood in the middle of the room in bare feet. He shivered, but not because he was cold._  

 _He cleared his throat, struggling to keep his voice even. “Your parents are asleep, but Candace is downstairs watching TV,” Matt said and waited. He listened to Foggy pick up the thin chain his dad had found downstairs and pieced together as makeshift restraints. Matt held out his arms, wrists together. “I’m ready.”_   

 _“No, not until we have to.”_ _Foggy pleaded._

 _“We have to do this now.” Matt listened again. “They’re coming.”_  

 _Foggy wrapped the chain around Matt’s wrists, locking them in place with a small padlock. Matt experimentally shifted his hands and nodded. Good enough. Foggy wrapped his fingers gently around Matt’s elbow and led him to the stairs; being careful to narrate the steps as they walked down the to the living room._  

 _Candace turned the TV off as soon as she saw them. “Are they here?”_  

 _“Parked outside,” Foggy explained and pulled a cushion off the couch and tossed it in on the floor beside the coffee table for Matt to kneel on. Matt lowered himself to his knees._  

 _Matt took deep breaths, trying to stay focused and calm. The touch on his shoulder was unexpected, and he flinched away, but Candace’s fingers held on for a moment longer. “This is bullshit. You didn’t do anything,” she said before letting go and running up the stairs. She stopped before reaching the top and perched there, watching._  

 _Foggy knelt beside him, wrapping his arm around Matts’ shoulders and back, pulling him off balance, but Matt leaned into him, trusting Foggy not to let him fall._  

 _“I am going to fix this," Foggy promised, "Tell me you know I will fight to get you back.”_  

 _“You’ll fight to get me back.” Matt repeated. He pressed his face into Foggy’s neck, feeling Foggy’s heartbeat against his cheek._  

 _There were footsteps on the sidewalk. Matt listened to them climb the stairs, stumbling on the left where the cement was crumbled, where Foggy had pulled him to the side so that he wouldn’t fall when they arrived on Christmas Eve._  

 _The sound of knuckles on wood was deafening in the silence. Foggy’s heart ramped up, thundering in his chest, and Matt could feel his own heart match to the beat. Matt felt cold when Foggy let him go._  

 _Foggy opened the door; two men walked in, one was chewing gum. The other man smelled like cigarettes, stale coffee, and strong body odour. Their shoes were covered in snow, but they don’t remove them, their steps left puddles of dirt on the floor._  

 _“Is he combative?” the smoker asked._  

 _“No,” Foggy answered._  

 _The gum chewer was holding a bag that he let drop while dealing with the paperwork. Matt sat exceptionally still while Foggy and the agent discussed the details._  

 _“A customer service rep will get a hold of you to let you know if you can have him back. Otherwise, a sales and marketing assistant will help find a suitable replacement at no additional cost.”_  

If you can have him back. 

 _A pen scratched on paper._  

 _“Sign here.”_  

 _Foggy signed. Matt felt physical pain in his gut at the sound of paper tearing, the quick thrum of a perforated line. Foggy’s hand was shaking; Matt could hear the paper rustling in his hand._  

 _The agent picked up the bag. “We were told he’d be in isolation.”_  

 _“I found some restraints after getting off the phone with your rep. That’s okay, isn’t it?”_  

 _The smoker sighed and crouched down. He pulled at the chains on Matt’s wrists. Matt could hear what he said under his breath. “Fucking amateur, would serve you right to be stabbed in your sleep.”_  

 _He gave it another tug testing to see if he could just pull the chains loose, but they held tight. “You have the key for this?” he asked Foggy._  

 _Foggy passed him the key. The lock opened, the chains were unwound. There wasn’t any time for Matt to stretch before zip cuffs were secured around his wrists and pulled tight. The other item in the bag was a circular metal band; it stank of blood and metal. Matt heard the rusted hinge grind as it was unfastened and pulled open._  

 _The smoker grabbed a fist full of Matt’s hair and pulled his head forward as the device was pressed to his skin at the back of his neck, he felt the electrical prongs dig into his skin. He couldn’t breathe. The ends were pushed together, pinching the skin at the joints, and clicked loudly into place as it was fastened together._  

 _Matt wasn’t used to the bulk and weight of a collar anymore. It scratched his skin and when he swallowed his throat pressed against its rigid confines. He felt like he was choking, and he wanted to yank it off with all his might, fighting against instinct to keep still and not move._  

 _A potent alcohol scent filled the air as the agent uncapped a felt marker; Matt felt his bracelet tugged on, then the chill tip of the pen dragged across the skin of his right arm, copying the numbers and letters of his ID._  

 _Matt was pulled up. Something slapped onto the floor and he was told to step into a pair open toed shoes that the agent had tossed in front of him. Matt moved his foot forward, searching._  

 _“Hurry up, you stupid fuck!” the guy snarled._  

 _The hard slap against his ear came completely unexpected and he was knocked off balance, pushed to the side by the sheer force of it._  

 _It stung, and the next moment he felt himself falling, unable to catch himself because his damn wrists were bound together in front of him. He helplessly slammed into the coffee table. A glass toppled to the floor, liquid spilled, but nothing shattered._  

 _And then Foggy was next to him, holding his shoulders, pulling his shirt up on the side that had scraped against the edge of the table._  

 _The agent grabbed Matt’s arm and yanked on him, away from Foggy, and it was all Matt could to do scramble back onto his feet. The man’s arm was hooked under his, and Matt’s wrists were restrained and he couldn’t… he just couldn’t._  

 _“Lay off, he’s bleeding.” Foggy’s voice was hard._  

No, please, Foggy, you’ll only make things worse. Even as bad as things are, it could be so much worse. _Matt was pushed forward and he stumbled but didn’t fall, the agent’s arm was still linked with his._  

 _“Right in front of you, idiot.” The agent’s voice was low and angry._  

 _“He’s blind, asshole.” Foggy shouted._  

 _Light footsteps thumped down the stairs, a tap ran. Candace was standing behind Foggy, handing him something, and Matt felt shirt lifted up again, recoiling momentarily at the cold wet sensation pressed against his side._  

 _“It’s okay, it’s just me,” Foggy said, and his voice was right beside Matt’s ear, so close Matt could feel his breath on his cheek. The pressure of Foggy’s hand on his side felt good, the cold was soothing but removed too soon as he was pushed again, reminded that he had to find the footwear on the floor._  

 _“Your side will be okay, it’s just a scratch,” Foggy told him in a gentle voice._  

_But Matt didn’t care about his side. He just didn’t want to be taken away. Foggy couldn't help him. No one could. He belonged to the Centre. He was a state-ward and that was all he was ever going to be._

_He wouldn't beg. He refused to do that to Foggy._  

 _And then Foggy was crouching down next to him._  

 _“Right foot,” he said, and Matt lifted his right leg off the floor, and he felt the rough plastic against the bottom of his foot and the strap pushed around his toe. “Left foot.”_  

 _He was grateful, but scared, because he could hear the mocking snort of the agent holding his arm. He knew there would be consequences for seeming weak and helpless._  

 _A heavy cloth bag was pulled over his head. It was difficult to breathe around the sudden stuffiness of the hood, the foul musty stench of damp fabric, of sweat and old foul breath._  

 _Matt felt disoriented as his sense of smell was muffled entirely._  

 _In his head he repeated over and over again; Foggy_ is going to fight to get me back. This isn’t the end. 

 _“I’ll come for you,” Foggy whispered as Matt was led away, his voice choked and desperate. Matt was acutely aware that this might be the last time he ever heard Foggy’s voice._  

 

 

 

(foggy) 

Foggy watched from the door while Matt was forced to stand in the snow while the back of the van was unlocked.  

He had just idly stood by and watched Matt get taken away by the Centre.  

Fuck that.  

“Foggy?” Candace was standing beside him. She took his hand. Her voice sounded thin and brittle, confused and angry. “Matt was cooperating; they didn’t have to hurt him like that.”  

“They’re assholes. They’re all just fucking assholes. Don’t you get it yet? This is what they do. You had said before you thought I should take training at the Centre, learn how to manage wards? Well, there you go. That’s what they do to wards.” Foggy answered and pulled away. He didn’t have time for this. He couldn’t just let this happen. Matt had nothing to do with the riots in Times Square.  

Candace sat down on the couch and watched him pace. “We need to write a letter, file a complaint.” 

“Candace, the system is a piece of shit. They’d probably review the complaint and consider it a compliment. Everything those fuckers tell you; it’s all bullshit. I have to get him out of there.” 

He called Dylan first. He didn’t care that it was four a.m., Dylan was a member of the abolitionist club at Columbia and he’d have contacts, maybe know someone who could help fight, or, at least, someone more familiar with the system than Foggy was.  

That was how Foggy found out about Steven. 

Steven was apparently out jail. He’d bragged to Dylan about how easy it had been to be released. He’d just had to give the investigators some names, that was all.  

“Whose names?” 

Dylan wouldn't say. He gave Foggy Steven's phone number.  Foggy called him next.  

“They had me in a cell with seven other people,” Steven moaned. “They asked me if I knew any wards, and so I told them. Sucks that he got taken in for questioning, but I couldn’t just give them nothing. I would have had to wait for hours for my parents to come bail me out.” 

“Did you say Matt was involved in the protest? What did you tell them?” Foggy demanded. 

“Of course not. I just told them he spoke at one our abolitionist meetings.”  

“Fuck you,” Foggy whispered. “Do you have any idea the kind of trouble you got him into?”  

“They weren’t going to let me go until I gave them something. We all know Matt wasn’t involved in the protest. He’ll be fine.” 

Foggy hung up before he could swear at Steven again. Foggy was going to wake up every single person he knew.  

 

 

 (matt) 

 _There were benches along either side of the cargo hold of the van, but they were full. Matt counted five men on each side as he was pushed to the front and forced to kneel. There was no heat in the back of the van, but the bodies around him were warm. Knees pressed against his shoulders and ribs._  

 _There were five more pickups. Matt was pressed against the wall, his knees were burning from the constant vibration of the road, the corrugated metal of the cold metal floor and the prolonged position making his legs ache and his feet go numb. The air was stuffy. The restraints made it impossible for him to brace himself as the van started and stopped and turned. He was tumbled and bumped defencelessly against the legs of those around him._  

 _Someone near the back moaned. The voice sounded old, rough, and sick. There was a retching sound, and, God—the smell! The smell permeated the already stuffy air. Someone else heaved. Matt felt his stomach churn._  

 _With the van full, there were fewer stops and turns. He could tell they were on the highway now. Time seemed to swell and lurch. None of his companions talked, everyone was immersed in fear and misery._  

 _When the van finally did stop, everyone was silent with dread expectation. Matt heard the voices outside, discussing sports teams and what they got their kids for Christmas. No one was in any rush._  

 _When the door finally did open, the agents gagged, swearing at the mess and the smell of sickness._  

 _“Get the hose and gloves. Fucking animals.”_  

 _The heat that had built up inside during the journey dissipated quickly once the doors were opened. The air was cold and the water sprayed into the van made everything so much colder. Matt was the last to be released because he was at the back. He had been in that kneeling position so long that his legs felt stiff and refused to carry his weight, but strong hands shoved him forward. He stumbled, tried to focus, but failed, it was all swirls and confusion. He missed the step as he was led out of the van and fell—forward and out of control. The agent was close enough, he could have caught him easily if he wanted to. Instead, the asshole stepped away. Matt landed hard on his side, head hitting the ground._  

 _Without his arms to support him, he had to roll onto his side, pushing up with his elbow and onto his knees. He was in a puddle of water and vomit left from hosing out the van. His head was throbbing, the blood from where he hit his head warm around his ear, down his neck._  

 _No one helped him get up. He was filthy. He stank. They stepped around. A shoe nudging his hip. “Get up.”_  

 _He got one foot in front of him, then the other. He was up, but unsteady on his feet._  

 _“Come on. Move it.”_  

 _He followed the sound of the other wards moving forward, listening carefully for steps or obstacles. He still couldn’t form a picture of his surroundings in his mind, but it was enough to follow. All his willpower coalesced into the sheer determination to not fall down again.._  

 _Matt had counted sixteen distinct heartbeats in the back of the van. He was now at the end of the line, and he listened to the others being lined up. Someone walked down the row of detainees with what sound like garden shears. Snip. The zip cuffs fell loose. His hood was yanked off his head without warning._  

 _The only relief it brought was the air was fresh compared to the stifling staleness in that transport van._  

 _The instructions they were given were harsh and simple—everything off, put your clothes in the bag, kneel, hands clasped behind your back._  

 _He kicked off the flipflops and took off his clothes. What bag? He couldn’t sense where the bag was, so he held his items out, hoping someone would notice and take them from him instead. It wasn’t enough. His collar, oh fuck, he felt the surge of power a moment before the shock hit. It left him breathless. He heard the crinkle of plastic. Someone held the bag up in front of him after that, and he stuffed them into the trash bag._  

 _He knelt. Clasping his fingers together behind his back. That, he was familiar with. Too familiar._  

 _There was water again—ice cold. They were all being hosed off. The water pressure stung on his naked flesh._ _A thin cotton jumpsuit was shoved into his hands. More orders. Get dressed._  

 _“Get them numbered and let’s go,” a voice called out._  

 _There was that alcohol based scent of the Sharpie again. Footsteps were slowly progressing down the line towards him. A hand grabbed his face and the felt tip against the skin of his forehead. He could only barely make out that it was a number. They grabbed his right hand and did the same. A voice yelled at him, “Seventy-one.”_  

 _They were told to bring their arms forward. Metal cuffs were fastened around their wrists._  

 _“Stand.”_  

 _Matt could hear a couple of people having difficulty to get up. The hoods were put back over their heads, not the same hoods, and he barely had enough time to process that over his senses being immersed in the other prisoners’ scents, their breath. The transition was sudden and shocking, yet again disrupting everything he was able to sense around him._  

 _Someone pushed him forward again. He followed the line once more. The place they were being taken to was not a cell, it felt like a large open space, a warehouse. Chain links of a fence rattled as a gate was pulled open, the prisoners ushered inside a penned enclosure. He tried to count the heartbeats. More than thirty? Too many for him to discern individually. They were all kneeling. He stumbled over legs and feet as he made his way inside._  

 _“Down.”_  

 _They meant on his knees, and so that’s what Matt did. They were packed in so close it was difficult to find space on the floor. Someone’s shoulder leaned against his back, just another tired prisoner seeking support. Matt rested into the pressure, the meager human contact helping to ground him just a little.  He was cold and shivering. His head was throbbing from where he hit it when he fell out of the van._  

 _He thought it must be morning by now. It felt surreal. It had only been the day before at approximately the same time that he’d been opening Christmas presents with Foggy’s family._  


	34. Deconstruction 2/3

(foggy) 

Foggy used the phone number he got off of Dylan and called the president of the abolitionist club at five a.m. and the man sounded less than pleased to be woken up so early the day after Christmas. That didn’t mean he didn’t help. He gave Foggy the contact number of a lawyer specializing in lease law, suggesting Foggy should wait until at least nine a.m. if he expected her to be willing to help.  

Nine a.m.? That was four hours away. _Four hours._ Foggy tried to occupy some time doing his own research online, checking the clock every five minutes. He held out for an entire hour and ended up calling her at six a.m. 

She suggested he call the office during regular business hours and make a proper appointment.  

In the mean time she advised him to fill out every requisition statement he could download off the Centre website and start collecting character references. 

What good were character references going to do? He wasn’t applying for a job; he was trying to get his best friend cleared of a crime he never committed. But, other than downloading, printing, and filling out what felt like mountains of paperwork to make a request to have Matt released there was little else that he could do.  

Foggy called everyone, insisting on them all writing letters and faxing them to his father’s business fax number. He had the letters from his parents and his sister, stating that Matt had been home all day with them. He hoped it would be enough. He sat in his father’s office at the hardware store for four hours waiting for letters to come in and printing out ridiculous amounts of paperwork.  

Dylan borrowed his sister’s car and met Foggy at the store just before lunch to take him to the Detention Holding Complex listed on the receipt Foggy had been given when Matt had been taken away..  

Why did everything have to take so long?  

“Just drive me there, I don’t care. I’ll find my own way home.” 

The Centre offices closed at five p.m., giving Foggy only four hours to convince the bastards to let him take Matt home. 

He studied the building through the car’s passenger side window. The only signage was a small metal plate beside the front door. _Detention Holding Complex- Centre Services._ Like the Market, it had a distinct warehouse feeling.  

Dylan dropped him off at the front door.  

 

 

(matt) 

 _It had been hours since they were shoved into the makeshift holding pen within the warehouse. A loudspeaker and a recorded voice filled the silence._  

 _“Acceptance, productivity, silence, appreciation, and contentment. A good ward is obedient and submissive.”_  

 _The volume was loud enough to drown out most other sounds, and other than the tired groans of the people around him there was nothing else to focus on. The voice, the same voice Matt remembered being constantly piped through the speakers back in training, invaded his mind. He tried to keep his own thoughts, to recite the tenets that Foggy had made up for him, but over and over the droning voice took over and he found himself following alone, following the voice and the words being repeated in an endless loop. Still on his knees, Matt nodded off intermittently, falling in and out of weird dreams, his head dropping forward and then back up again as the recording brought him back into wakefulness. The agents were a constant presence—always there, always watching, always ready to deliver a corrective shock to anyone who dared move._  

 _Another batch of detainees was brought in and the already packed space became even more crowded. One by one, people were taken away by agents, numbers were called out, the prisoner slowly struggling to their feet as they were grabbed and pulled out of the pen. The footsteps of the men who were taken away trailed down the hall, and that was where Matt lost track of them._  

 _Matt was number seventy-one. He knew to remember that._  

 _Fifty-seven, eighty-nine. They weren’t called in order. There was no way to anticipate how long he’d be there. He was glad he’d had the chance to go to the bathroom back at the Nelson’s house before being taken away, but his bladder felt heavy. He still couldn’t get a good picture of his surroundings. —Several people had begged to use a washroom, but they were ignored. There was the smell of urine in the air. Others had gotten sick from the stress. It was just another tactic to humiliate and dehumanize them. Matt had been through it all before, but that didn’t mean it was something he’d ever gotten used to._  

 _Seventy-one. That was his number. He startled into action after a second of realization. His muscles were stiff from all the kneeling. A hand slapped the side of Matt’s head when his limbs didn’t seem to agree with his resolve to move. “That’s you, get up.”_  

 _Matt’s arm was grabbed by the agent come to collect him, pulled to his feet and dragged through the crowded mass of people. Matt tripped on ankles and feet, his knees bumping against shoulders as he clumsily found his way through. Finally, he was maneuvered out of the pen and pulled down the hall._  

 _The floor was cold. Everything was cold._  

 _He was pushed through a doorway and the door slammed shut behind him. Silence followed and it felt like a balm to his senses. No one was there with him. He took a tentative step forward._  

 _Then he stopped, unsure what to do next. No one told him he was allowed to move._  

 _A good ward is obedient and submissive._  

 _A shudder ran through his entire body. No._  

 _Matt licked his dry lips and whispered, “I don’t have to accept what they’ve done to me. I won’t be obedient. I won’t be submissive. I won’t be silent. I don’t give a shit about productivity. I deserve to be treated with respect.” He needed to hear the words out loud, to make them real and tangible. He said them again._  

 _He took another step forward. He didn’t have any control over what was done to him. He couldn’t stop the Centre, not as a state-ward dependent. His body might belong to the Centre, but they didn’t have control over his mind.  He was afraid, but he wasn’t going to voluntarily retreat back into that haze of hopelessness that had gripped him for so long._  

 _“You’ve taken everything I was; I won’t let take who I’ve become.”_  

 

 

(foggy) 

Foggy walked in and presented his receipt at the administration desk. Might as well start with the entitlement approach. “I’m here to pick up my ward.”  

The woman behind the desk pulled his paper over and looked at it. “Identification number??” 

The number was right on the paper. Foggy bit his tongue and kept his voice pleasant and calm. “3A6H9N.”  

She typed it into her computer and tapped her fingers on the desk. “He was brought in by the anti-terrorism task force.” She looked at the receipt again and checked it on the screen. “State-ward-dependent?” she asked.  

“Yes.”  

“Have you submitted the 22-2B request for appeal form?” She asked sweetly. 

“Yes. Online.” Opening his case, Foggy pulled out the bundle of forms he’d printed out on his dad’s office printer. “I also have everything here.”  

She typed something else in. “I can set up an interview with one of our service representatives, but I can’t provide you with any further information at this time. If you’ll take a seat...? I have some more forms for you to fill out.”  

She used the keyboard again and then walked over to the printer and collected the pages to fasten to a clipboard. She passed Foggy a pen and smiled. It looked completely fake. Foggy returned the expression with a fake smile of his own. “Thank you.”                                                             

He sat down in the small waiting area by the window, checked his watch, perched the clipboard on his lap and started in on the paperwork.  

It was all information that he’d filled out already on the other forms. He pulled Matt’s lease registration out of his wallet and filled in the blank spaces. He needed to cooperate to get Matt released. No matter how frustrating the process was  

When he finished, he was assured a service representative would meet with him soon. Soon was apparently used loosely. Forty-five minutes later (and checking in at the desk, politely, three times to make sure he hadn’t been forgotten), a woman walked up to him. “Mr Nelson?”  

“Yes?” 

She held out her hand. “I’m Ms Harris. I will be your service representative today. Please follow me.”  

Foggy followed, walking behind her, feeling like part of a movie, the part of the unsuspecting victim being lured into the alien hive to be eaten. She led him to her office and offered him a seat. “I understand your ward has been detained. Do you wish to seek damages for lost productivity?” 

“No. I just want him back.” Foggy placed the character witness papers on her desk. “Matt’s not involved in anything. He’s blind. He can barely cross the street without help.” _Was he laying it on too thick?_      

She picked up the papers and leafed through them, examining the statements written by Foggy’s parents. To Foggy’s surprise, she wasn’t just skimming, she was actually reading every word.   

“He was at your parents’ house the entire day?”  

“Yes. We are students at Columbia University. One of our classmates, Steven Geoffrey, was arrested at the protest. He said he gave them Matt’s name so they’d let him go home. The only reason Steven even knows who Matt is because they had a class together.” Foggy reached over and pointed out the letter Steven wrote.  

She read it carefully.  

“All we’ve been doing these past three weeks is studying,” Foggy added. He leaned forward and plucked the letter written by the Dean from the pile. “These are Matt’s grades. He’s the first ward to be admitted as a student to Columbia University. He’s doing so well.” Foggy took a breath. What more could he say?  

“And he’s a state-ward-dependent, you said?” She looked at the receipt again. “Not part of the work-release program?”  

“Yes. He’s a dependent of Centre-Care.”  

She opened the laptop, typed something in, and waited a moment. “I can confirm he was brought to our complex,” she stated.  

“He’s innocent.”  

“So far as I’m aware, Mr Nelson, your ward has been implicated in a serious offense and is undergoing routine questioning. Whether he is innocent or not is up to the agent assigned to his investigation to determine.”  

She entered something into the computer. “I’ve sent a message to the agent assigned to his file. Perhaps we can hurry the process along.” She smiled tightly. “I’m not here to make life difficult. The wards in our care are valuable investments to our leaseholders, and the anti-terrorism unit is working as fast as it can to process their caseload and return everyone to work as swiftly as possible.”  

“Thank you,” He said, and settled in to wait.  

 

 

 _(_ matt _)_  

 _The door opened, heavy footsteps entered. A large man. Turkey dinner and vodka on his breath. “Kneel.”_  

 _Matt was about to lower himself exactly where he was when a hand grabbed his arm. “On the marker, stupid.”_  

 _How was he expected to see any markers even if he wasn’t blind; the cloth bag was still pulled over his head. He bit down the retort raising in his throat. It was all just a game._  

 _“I’m sorry,” he muttered, cautiously taking a few steps._  

 _A pitiless hand yet again pulled him, yanking him forward, until he was situated where the agent wanted him to be._  

 _Before kneeling, Matt asked, “May I use a toilet?”_  

 _“Go ahead,” the interrogator said._  

 _Matt waited._  

 _“I said go ahead,” the man repeated._  

 _“Here?”_  

 _“Are you deaf? Now.”_  

 _“But... is there a bucket? Or somewhere you want me to go?”_  

 _“No. Right where you are. Right now. I don’t have all day.”_  

 _“My clothes.”_  

 _“In your clothes. Go on.”_  

 _Matt’s stomach was cramping. It hurt._  

 _“Do it!” the man yelled. He activated the collar._  

 _Matt flinched. Hard._  

 _“Do it now!” the man yelled again._  

 _There was, Matt reminded himself, a design to this. It was meant to humiliate._  

 _The collar was activated again. The nodes on the collar felt hot even after the activation. The prongs would just keep getting hotter and hotter until they left burns in the skin. Until his skin blistered._  

 _So what if his interrogator wanted him to piss himself?_  

 _The collar was activated again._  

 _It would be humiliating, but it wouldn’t leave him wounded._  

 _Matt did it. The strong scent of urine permeated the air and pooled around his feet. Even knowing it wasn’t his fault, even though he did it to avoid worse injury, it was beyond humiliating. The man laughed. “Kneel.”_  

 _Slowly, Matt knelt. His knees in the puddle. It was a game, he reminded himself._  

 _The interrogator attached a tether to Matt’s cuffs and secured it to a ring on the floor. He shortened it until Matt was forced to lean forward._  

 _The cloth bag over his head was pulled away. Matt took a deep breath, the smell of urea made him gag._  

 _A chair scraped across the floor, the agent sat down. “State your ID.”_  

 _“3A6H9N.”_  

 _He heard a pen against paper. “Lease holder’s name?”_  

 _“Fo— Franklin Nelson.”_  

 _There was a sigh. “I said leaseholder, dumbass.”_  

 _“Ms Sharpe.”_  

 _“Supervisor?” The man asked next._  

 _“Franklin Nelson,” Matt dutifully responded._  

 _“Where were you today?”_  

 _“I was with my supervisor’s family. I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”_  

 _“Did I say you were doing anything wrong? What were you doing with your supervisor’s family?”_  

 _“Spending Christmas with his parents and sister.”_  

 _“Don’t you have any family of your own to spend the day with?”_  

 _“No, sir.”_  

 _“And were you there the entire day?”_  

 _“Yes, sir.”_  

 _“Where was your supervisor?”_  

 _Matt’s not going to tell them Foggy was at the protest, not even to explain he was helping a friend. “I don’t know, sir.”_  

 _“Do you think you might know something?”_  

 _“No, sir.”_  

 _“Do you think you might be ready to answer some questions?”_  

 _“No, sir.”_  

 _“Not ready to answer questions?”_  

 _“I don’t know anything.”_  

 _“How do you know that? I haven’t even asked you anything yet.”_  

 _“I’m sorry, sir.”_  

 _“You’ve been named as an accomplice in the New York Times Square riots.” His voice sounded bored._  

 _“I wasn’t there.”_  

 _The collar activated. Matt folded in on himself as his muscles seized._  

 _“That wasn’t a question,” the agent said. “Steven Geoffrey named you as an associate. You have been witnessed meeting with known members of an abolitionist group of Columbia University where your supervisor attends as a student. You have been observed participating in anti-Centre events.”_  

 _“I’m was in a class with Steven, we studied together,” Matt explained, and braced himself because, yes, that hadn’t been a question either. Bracing didn’t help._  

 _“So, you admit to having connections with terrorists,” the agent stated._  

 _“No, sir.” Not a question, not a question. He had to support himself on his hands as he fell forward._  

 _“Is your supervisor aware of your terrorist activities?”_  

 _“No, sir.”_  

 _“Were you meeting with them secretly?”_  

 _“Foggy knew I was studying with them. We were just studying. They’re my classmates in European History class. I’m a student at Columbia University,” Matt amended._  

 _“Them? Who else were you meeting with?”_  

 _“They’re in the same class with me. We were studying.”_  

 _“Names?”_  

 _Matt hesitated and the collar activated yet again, this time longer. He curled up into as tight a ball as he could, his forehead to his knees. A panting breath was all he managed before the collar activated again, and this time, he could smell his skin burning under the over-charged nodes on the collar. An involuntary cry escaped his lips, and the interrogator was laughing. He couldn’t move to lessen the pressure of the prongs against the back of his neck because of the position he was restrained in. All he could do was kneel forward as the metal continued to burn._  

 _No more, no more._  

 _He’s wouldn’t be saying they were terrorists. They had just been studying, there was nothing suspicious about that. He wasn’t betraying them by saying their names. “Dylan Hunter and Tara Green. We were just studying.”_  

 _The agent wrote the names down on his paper, Matt heard the pencil scratching. “How was your supervisor involved?”_  

 _“He’s not.”_  

 _“And you know that, how?”_  

 _“I would have noticed something, or he would have said something. He’s never, he hasn’t done anything wrong.”_  

 _Matt’s words were followed with silence as the agent paced the room slowly, he walked in a circle around where Matt knelt. He stopped, turned and left the room._  

 _Matt listened as the footsteps receded down the hall._  

 _He felt dizzy and disoriented. How long had it been since he was taken? His mouth and throat felt dry. The muscles in his back, shoulders and neck were spasming from being restrained in a stress position. He could feel the implant in his back, the invasive foreign object aggravating the nerves around it._  

 _Leaning forward further, resting his arms on the floor and arching his back for a moment helped slightly, but he couldn’t stay like that. He struggled to sit up, shifting his knees._  

 _How long were they going to leave him like this?_  

 _Foggy will fight to get me back._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Matt.  
> Next update is tomorrow,  
> Hang in there!


	35. Deconstruction 3/3

(foggy)

It took too long. 

Everything took too long. Ms Harris ushered Foggy to the end of the hall and asked him to take a seat and wait at the small alcove near the stairs where there were a couple of chairs and a small round table with the day’s newspaper on it. 

The front page headline read: 

Time Square Riot: The New Insurgence of Ward Terrorism

He’d been there. It hadn’t been true when he said he’d avoided the worst of it. Before finding Dylan, he’d seen what was happening. It was not a riot, and it certainly wasn’t terrorism. He stared at the photo accompanying the news story, it was a close-up of a man’s face, his expression furious, filled with rage. It was a ward, the collar around his neck impossible to miss, and the story accompanying the photo didn’t get any less biased from there. 

The rally had been peaceful until the police showed up dressed in riot gear. They’d started arresting people as soon as they arrived, spraying tear gas into to the crowd. Was it any wonder that things escalated? 

And to call it terrorism? There wasn’t even any mention in the article about the protest or the message behind it. Nothing about the unsafe working conditions in factories, nothing about the abuse wards suffered at the hands of their supervisors. 

Foggy checked his watch every five minutes. The offices were only open until five p.m. He had one hour left. If they didn’t give him Matt today, he would come back tomorrow, and he would keep coming back until they got sick and tired of seeing his ugly mug and gave Matt back out of sheer annoyance. He wasn’t going to give up. 

It was four thirty when Ms Harris called him back into her office.

“I verified your claim,” She explained to Foggy. “Your ward’s investigator will be joining us momentarily.”

An older man entered, not even sparing Foggy a glance. He was huge. His neck was as thick as his bald head. “Ms Harris.” 

She stood up and shook his hand, then gestured to the seat beside Foggy. 

“Tanner,” she said. “This is the supervisor of the ward you are currently working with. ID 3A6H9N.” 

“Number seventy-one? The blind kid?” He looked at Foggy beside him. “The boy told me you weren’t there with your family today. Where were you?” 

“A friend of mine from out of town got lost. I helped him get home.” 

“Where’d you find him?”

The partial truth was better than nothing; if they caught him in a lie, it would be so much worse. “Near Times Square. We were able to meet up close to Central Park.”

Tanner grunted. 

Ms Harris turned to the agent. “How is your investigation progressing, Tanner?” 

“I don’t think we need to waste any more of our time on this one. He’s named the other associates.” Tanner looked at his clipboard then eyed Foggy sideways. “Dylan Hunter and Tara Green.” 

Associates? Matt named Associates? Foggy kept quiet. He was here for Matt; he didn’t care about anything else. Dylan and Tara would have to be called later and warned, but Foggy’s greater concern at the moment was what had they done to Matt to make him name them as his associates? What did that even mean? 

She handed over the witness statements Foggy brought in. He looked them over. “This fits with what we already know.”

“Are you satisfied with the suspect’s statement?” 

“Yes,” Tanner answered.

She nodded. “Then we’re done. Mr Nelson, are you willing to accept custody?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

“There is no reason to press formal charges at this time. Tanner, are you satisfied with the outcome of this interview and do you agree to the terms within?” 

“Yes.” 

“I’ll print out the necessary paperwork.” 

Foggy read through the papers carefully, mindful not to accidently sign something he would later regret, but everything seemed straightforward. He would comply with Centre regulations; he would keep ward 3A6H9N under his control. Blah blah blah. He filled out the information, the same information he’d already given them downstairs (but who was he to argue if they were giving him Matt). He signed at the bottom with his name. 

Ms Harris read through the papers again. She passed them to Tanner, who also read through them before signing. Foggy was getting antsy. Why couldn’t they just let him get Matt? He was so sick of paperwork already. 

Finally, she thanked Tanner and told him to return to his work. 

She turned back to Foggy. “The recent sweep to cull the current unrest has us stretched thin, and we don’t have resources to waste on this kind of nonsense. I apologize for the inconvenience, Mr Nelson.”

That’s what this was? Arresting Matt in the middle of the night and hauling him away in a van was an inconvenience? 

“You may return to collect your ward tomorrow.”

“I’ll take him now.” 

“Tomorrow, Mr Nelson. As I have said, our agents are very busy at the moment. He will be prepared and ready for you in the morning.” 

“I don’t need him _prepared_. I just want him returned to me.” 

She passed him another release form stating that the condition of his ward was in no way reflective of the Centre, that he understood that by waiving the complimentary preparation offered, he was, therefore, liable to look after necessary grooming and health concerns himself. 

Un-fucking-believable. He signed it. He was taking Matt home today.

  

The ground floor was signposted well enough. Foggy handed over the form, and the scrawny guy at the desk checked it against the information on his computer. “We’ve got him in room six.” 

“This his?” The guy brought a plastic bag out from the storage room and held it up. 

Foggy read Matt’s ID scrawled across the front, he nodded and took it.  

“You’re sure you don’t want him cleaned up first? We could have him ready in the morning.” 

“No.”

“Whatever. You can change your mind after you see him I guess, Follow me.” 

He led Foggy around the counter and into a back area. The room was stark—cement walls and flooring. The ground felt slippery under his feet, and it smelled of damp and mold and astringent soap. 

“I’ll be back in a minute.” 

Finally, something was happening. 

 

 

(matt)

_Time wasn’t real. It was just darkness and pain, and all he wanted was for it to be over._

_Steven did this. Steven did this to him._

_Steven was the one who gave the Centre agents his name. If Steven was responsible, Matt hoped his punishment would be harsh, he hoped Steven would be sentenced to lease-work, or better yet as a state-ward just like Matt._

_He pictured Steven at the Centre, in training, kneeling, reciting tenets, wearing a collar. Dehumanised._

_He wanted Steven to pay._

_The anger seared deep into him. It felt good to be angry. He embraced it and pushed back the flash of guilt. No one deserved to be a ward. But, he sometimes wished, for all the people who casually hurt him to get just a taste of what it was like._

_Foggy was his supervisor, and thus responsible for him. What if they decided Foggy was just as guilty?_

_If Foggy got hurt as a result of this, Matt was going to-_

_He flinched when he heard the door open. How had he not heard anyone coming? It was an agent, but not the one who had interrogated him before. His step was lighter, his breathing faster._

_The tether on Matt’s restraints was released, allowing him to sit up, to straighten his back._

_“Get up.”_

_Matt tried, but his legs were stiff, his feet were numb with pins and needles. He couldn’t get his right foot under him properly, and the floor was wet and slick._

_None of the muscles in his legs felt like his own, and he was almost upright, when the muscles in his back spasmed, right in the same spot as the implant. He lost control and slid to the wet floor, unable to brace himself before his knees hit the concrete._

_The collar. It was always the collar. The overuse of the electric shock had already burned his skin, leaving his neck raw and sensitive. He struggled, trying harder, gathering the strength he had left to stand. he felt his restraints tugged on, the clip of a rope attached, and pulled._

_He shuffled more than walked, stinking and filthy, unsteady. He heard other voices in other rooms, voices demanding, different voices pleading. Another door, another room, his bare feet splashed in a cold puddle of water. The smell of soap. There was one other person. Matt’s step faltered as he became aware that the other person was angry, rapidly breathing through his nose, his heart racing. Not only angry, furious._

_Why? It wasn’t the interrogator from earlier, this person was different. He didn’t have the stink of the detention compound on his clothes like all the others did. There was something-_

_The agent holding the cord wrenched him forward, and Matt couldn’t help but stumble ahead._

_The man rushed forward. Matt’s senses fizzled in and out, but he knew the arm was swinging toward him, towards his head, the side he injured when he’d fallen from the van. He reacted instinctively bringing his arms up and blocking the blow before quickly sidestepping._

_He shouldn’t have done that. The corrective shock felt like fire lashing across his skin and he fell to his knees. Another rush of air as the enraged man surged toward him yet again, and Matt curled up, anticipating a kick._

_“Leave him the fuck alone,”_

_Oh, Matt knew that voice._

_Oh, no. Nononononono._

_Not Foggy._

_“Matt.” Foggy’s hand gently brushed the side of his face, and Matt felt something inside him break._

_Strong hands, careful and gently grasped his shoulders and eased him up, bracing him around his back and pulling close. Matt wanted to push him away, he didn’t want Foggy to see, this wasn’t how he wanted Foggy to see him. Not like this. Not humiliated, and defeated. But he leaned into the comfort and let Foggy hold on, letting him take his weight and hold him up. Matt rested his head on his shoulder, feeling the rise and fall of his breath, his heart, letting the sound of it encompass him completely. Letting himself sink into the steady beat as far as he could while Foggy held him close.  Until, finally, Foggy pulled away and pressed his forehead against his, a silent promise that they were together again._  

_“Matt, I’m here to take you home.”_

 

 

(foggy)

With one arm around his friend, Foggy twisted around to find the scrawny guy from the desk still hoovering. He was still holding the cord attached to Matt’s restraints. Holding it like a leash.

It was just... it was obscene. 

Foggy grabbed the cord and yanked it out of his hand, even though, shit, the sudden movement made Matt flinch again. “Get me the key for his restraints and the collar. I don’t need them.” 

The key for the restraints was tossed over to Foggy, landing in a puddle several feet away. It was a stretch, but Foggy reached it without having to let go of Matt. 

“You better be able to keep him under control,” he was warned. 

Foggy didn’t even justify that with a reply. He turned his attention to Matt. “Hold still for a second, I’m going to get these things off you.” 

He inserted the key in the right clasp first, opened it, and rubbed his hand over the pressure marks left on Matt’s skin. Then he opened the second. 

“And the key for the collar?” Foggy demanded.

“Did you bring your own in to switch it with?” 

“No.”

“Regulations state all wards on premises must wear a corrective collar.”

“We have one at home.”

“You should have brought it with you, then. Take it to a Centre Services Kiosk later and have it switched out.” 

Foggy stayed calm. He needed to get Matt out of this place as quickly as possible, preferably without getting himself arrested in the process. “I’m taking care of him. Can you leave us? Please?” 

“Safety guidelines state that civilians must not be left unattended with a detainee while on Centre property.”

“He’s my ward, not a detainee.” 

“While he’s here, he’s a detainee,” he argued. “I’ve got work to do, are you taking him, or not?”

“Yes. Yes, of course, I’m taking him,” Foggy answered, keeping Matt close as he helped him back up to his feet. “Get dressed and we’ll go.” 

Foggy tore open the bag. The scent of vomit wafted up into the air, and Foggy coughed lightly and pretended not to notice. 

Matt made a distressed noise. 

“We’ll take care of it at home; I don’t want you’re here any longer than necessary.” 

The clothing was damp. Matt stripped out of the jumpsuit and put on the clothes as Foggy passed them to him, but his feet were still bare. 

"What about shoes?" Foggy asked.

The guy from the desk shrugged and laughed. "That’s not my problem."

Foggy kicked off his runners. “Don’t argue, put them on.” Matt’s feet were only half a size smaller than his own. 

He interlinked their fingers and led Matt through the hallway and out to the front administration area to complete the paperwork to have Matt released. 

Matt swayed as they stood at the counter and Foggy signed the final acquisition form. He used his cellphone app to call a cab, and being close to the airport the automated app informed him there would be one at his location within ten minutes.

He wondered what would happen to the other wards still in detention who didn’t have someone to come get them?

What the hell was wrong with people?

The cab arrived just as the paperwork was complete and the desk clerk stamped the back of Matt’s hand. It was cold outside. Foggy let go of Matt’s hand to take off his jacket and pulled it on over Matt’s arms. Matt needed it more than he did, the sweater he wore underneath was plenty thick to keep him warm. 

He had Matt. It was all he needed. 

 

 

(matt)

_Matt held on._

_Foggy came for him._

_There’d been a minute of negotiation while the cab driver had refused to allow Matt inside, but the incentive of a fifty-dollar tip changed his mind._

_Matt rubbed at his face and wrinkled his nose at the stink of his hands. He couldn’t stand the thought of drawing in another breath to inhale the stench of the compound._

_Foggy’s arm tightened around him. Couldn’t Foggy smell it? How could he stand sitting so close? Foggy’s arm was around his shoulder, and Matt turned his face into his shoulder, concentrating only on that scent. Foggy smelled like his parents’ house. He smelled like Christmas dinner. He smelled like the cheap shampoo and the Dove soap he bought at the grocery store. He smelled like unscented (no such thing) antiperspirant, and he smelled like sweat, he smelled like coffee. He smelled distinctly Foggy, and Matt let himself sink deeper into the comfort he found there._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who reviews and has reviewed, you make my day!
> 
> Next up... Stop The World


	36. Stop The World

 

 

 

The cab driver's eyes reflected in the rearview mirror as he drove, and Foggy didn't have the energy to glare back at him.

All he wanted was to get Matt home.

Having Matt curled against his side on the back bench of the car, one hand wrapped and twisted in his sweater, was the closest Foggy had come to feeling settled all day. It hadn't taken long for Matt to fall asleep against him, and Foggy kept his arm wrapped around Matt’s shoulders, holding him close.

Foggy didn’t even bother to look at what the cab fare came out to be. Forty-five minutes and the promised fifty-dollar bonus for allowing Matt into the car. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that they were finally home. Not his parents’ house, the dorm.

The distance between getting dropped off at the curb and the entrance of their dorm wasn’t far, Foggy's toes were barely numb by the time they made it inside. He supported Matt’s weight the best he could with Matt’s arm slung over his shoulders.

“Bed?” 

“No. I need to get clean.” Matt’s voice broke on the words, and Foggy changed directions toward the bathroom. He propped him up against the edge of the counter. Matt started to pull his sweater up over his head, but he made a pained noise as he lifted his right arm. Foggy caught the material, helping him pull it up over his head. Matt’s coordination was shot to hell. 

“Okay, buddy. Shower now?” He turned the tap on first to get the hot water going, then led Matt under the spray, getting soaked in the process. He grabbed the soap and pressed it into Matt’s hand. “You okay from here?”

Matt nodded. “Thank you.”

Foggy left him to it, intending to check back in five minutes to make sure he hadn’t fallen asleep or anything. It felt like there should be something else he was supposed to be doing, but he didn’t know what, so he grabbed a trash bag from under the sink and stuffed Matt’s dirty clothes into it. Come to think of it, Foggy sniffed his arm and grimaced. He needed to have a shower and change as well. He hadn’t thought much of it while he’d been there, but the detention complex had a distinctly sour odor to it.

He checked on Matt after five minutes; just like before, he was sitting in the corner, with the spray raining down on him. The water was still hot and he was still conscious (demonstrated by an OK sign made with his thumb and forefinger). Every five minutes Foggy checked back again.

"Are you all done, buddy? I think you tapped out the hot water tank." Foggy turned off the tap and held out a towel. Matt slowly raised his arm to take it, and then draped it over himself like a blanket. 

"Yep, not quite how that works." He stepped into the shower and crouched down. Foggy’s eyes focused in on the collar again. The ink on Matt’s forehead was also still clearly visible. Number seventy-one. Matt had apparently attempted to scrub at it, but it would take time for the ink to fade completely. The right side of his face was bruised around the eye and cheekbone, and the wound above his temple had reopened in the shower, fresh blood smeared in his hair, running down the side of his face and neck, pale red with water drops. He took the edge of the towel and dabbed gently at the dampness there.

"Hold out your arms and I'll pull you up, Got it? One, two..." He pulled and Matt finally stood. It was as if Matt had lost all muscle strength and volition. It was on Foggy to get him to put on a pair of boxers, lead him to bed, help him lay down, and pull the covers up. 

After having made sure Matt was okay and comfortable, he said to him in a low voice, “I’m gonna go for a quick shower, too, okay?”

Matt nodded weakly, and Foggy added his the clothes he’d been wearing to the garbage bag before he went into the bathroom and showered.

Done. The horrible day was over. He slipped under his covers with the one single thought that there was nothing more he was looking forward to than sleeping for about a week.

But, no, of course, it wouldn’t quite be so easy because apparently Matt had other plans. 

Before Foggy could even contemplate switching off his bedside lamp to drift off into dreamland, Matt was up again. He grabbed a pair of jeans and a t-shirt from the chair next to his bed and disappeared into the bathroom. Through the open door, Foggy could see him putting on the clothes and then rummaging around in the cabinet under the sink. Matt was on his knees with the container of Lysol wipes open beside him, furiously scrubbing away at the floor.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I can still smell it,” Matt explained.

“Lysol? You hate those things.”

“I have to get rid of the smell.”

“What smell?”

“The detention compound. Me. All of it.”

“Okay, but can we do that without you getting a headache? If it needs to be done, let me do it.”

“You don’t know where—”

“Please, Matt. Stop. You can inspect it when I’m done and tell me if I’ve missed anything.”

Matt recapped the container. He stood up, holding on tightly to the counter top. He looked ready to fall but he stubbornly remained standing. “I’ll do the laundry.”

“Matt, please. You look like you’re about to pass out. Lie down.”

“No.” Matt clenched his jaw. 

Foggy reached out and placed his hand on Matt’s shoulder and jumped as Matt flinch away violently. “You’re home; it’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay,” Matt retorted. “I can’t. I need it to stop. I need everything to stop.” He took a gasping breath. “I need to go back to not thinking. To not hoping. Or caring. Or trying to be anything better than what I am. There’s no point, Foggy. All of this, they can take it. They will take it out of spite. We’re never going to make it."

"Matt." 

Matt backed away as Foggy reached out for him again.  "No. I didn't do anything. I didn't do anything wrong and they took me. I don't know why I'm here. I can't keep doing this. Foggy, I can't keep fighting. We aren't going to win.” 

"Matt you don't know that. You're just tired. Go back to bed, please." 

Matt stepped around him, picked up the laundry and walked out.

Foggy wasn’t fast enough to intervene or stop Matt from walking away. The door slammed shut behind him. 

Foggy slammed his fist into the wall. He was alone, but he knew Matt could still hear him. 

“That’s bullshit!” Foggy yelled. He stomped his foot on the floor for good measure. He couldn’t catch his breath. His chest hurt. “Matt. Matt, come back. We have to keep going, to keep living; that’s what we have to do, to show them that they aren’t going to keep us down. To make them pay for what they did to us, we have to keep fighting. Matt, please, I’m not strong enough to do it alone.” 

It was too much. He wanted to kick holes in the walls and break everything in sight. He wanted to— He wanted to—

Fuck it. Fuck everything.

He cleaned the bathroom instead. He wiped down every single inch of it with the wipes, using up nearly half the container. He cleaned until he felt the frustration and the fury leak out of his bones and the heavy chemical smell permeated everything. The strong fumes made his head spin. He opened the window to let the fresh air in. 

Maybe he was just tired. The cold air rushing in from the outside wafted over him. The sudden chill made him shiver.

Bereft of energy, Foggy stumbled to his bed, sat down, and closed his eyes. Was Christmas only yesterday? The last time he slept was before Matt had been picked up at three a.m. How much sleep had he gotten? An hour? Two? The bathroom was done. Hopefully, whatever smell that had been bothering Matt was gone. He needed to help Matt with the laundry; Matt shouldn't have to deal with the aftermath of what happened alone. 

But that would require getting up again, and getting up took too much energy. He lied down on top of the covers. Five minutes. He wold only close his eyes for five minutes.  Then he’d help Matt.

Foggy woke up with the last thought that had been on his mind still going through his head. Help Matt with laundry. How was it that the room was dark? Oh. How long had he slept?

He sat up, a blanket falling off his shoulders as he did so, recognizing Matt’s bed cover. The air smelled fresh. The room was cool, but not cold. Foggy leaned over and flicked on his bedside lamp, which had been switched off. The window was shut. Their freshly washed clothes were folded neatly on Matt’s bed across the room.

“Matt?”

“Over here,” came the answer from the corner. Foggy twisted around so he could see where the voice was coming from; Matt was sitting on the floor.

“What are you doing over there?”

“Thinking,” Matt answered.

“About what?” Foggy asked as he slid off the end of the bed and scooted over to where Matt had wedged himself. 

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me.”

“I do. I'm sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Foggy said. "You don't have to be sorry."

“Will you shut up and let me finish?” Matt huffed.

Did Matt just tell him to shut up? “I can try.”

“I’m angry,” Matt continued, “but not at you, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. What I said, it wasn't fair. And it wasn't true. Do you remember saying the same thing? Back at the hospital? You said, why keep fighting when you know you’re going to lose—those were your words.”

“You remember that?” 

“Foggy, I remember every conversation we ever had. I remember everything you said, all the stories you told. I thought you died. I felt like I was dead. The only place I both of us were alive was in my head." 

"Matt," Foggy started but Matt stopped him again. 

"I'm sorry. I didn’t mean it; I’m not going to give up, Foggy. We aren’t giving up. We’re stronger than that.”

“Strength isn’t enough, Matt.”

"It has to be; it's all we have." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Health Assessment
> 
> "The Centre Assistance Kiosk is in the same building as the DMV."  
> “Seriously?”  
> “It kind of makes disturbing sense, don’t you think,” Matt answered.


	37. Bitter

Matt woke up warm, comfortable, and surrounded by familiar scents. He lay between Foggy and the wall, curled against his back, wrapped in his blanket with his head on Foggy’s pillow.

Foggy was snoring with his usual constant rumble. Matt let the sounds of Foggy’s breathing and the thump of his heart wash over him.

His hand rested comfortably on Foggy’s chest, rising and falling with his even breaths, and he only removed it when Foggy started stirring. The snoring tapered off, and then he grunted and stretched, his arm just barely missing Matt’s nose.

“Hey,” Foggy mumbled as he sat up.

Matt followed suit, pushing himself into a sitting position.

“You feeling okay?” Foggy asked him, his mouth opening in an extensive yawn.

Matt’s back still hurt when he moved; his head ached, and the overly sensitive the skin at the back of his neck was raw and irritated. The metal of the collar still itched like crazy. “Fine,” he answered.

“Can I take a look at your neck?”

Matt slid out of bed and sat down on the floor, tilting his head forward so that Foggy could examine it better. Foggy swung his legs over the edge, one leg on either side of Matt’s back. He carefully tugged the collar up to inspect the burns around the electrical nodes.

Foggy made sure not to touch the injury, but he circled it with his thumb, rubbing at the healthy skin. Matt froze—the sensation instinctively evoking a physical reaction, but he breathed through it and forced himself to relax.

“This thing needs to come off. Are you up to finding one of those kiosks that the guy at the detention complex mentioned?”

No, but if it meant getting the collar off... “Yes. Is the lockdown over?”

Foggy reached over to his nightstand to pick up his phone and checked the latest updates on the news feeds. “Manhattan wards back to work. If we stick together, we should be alright.”

One thing Matt knew with a considerable level of certainty: He would be okay, so long as he stayed near Foggy.

“Foggy, how did you get me out of the detention complex so fast?”

“I pestered them. You scoff, but that’s what I did. I called everyone we know and made them write letters of support about how awesome you are. I filled out eight million request forms and stalked the service agent at the compound until she agreed to give you back. She tried to convince me to come back in the morning so they could prepare you for pickup. Assholes.”

“I didn't want you to see me like that.”

“Like what?”

He hesitated, and then said in a low voice, “Pathetic.”

Foggy leaned into him, pressing his knees against his shoulder. “Do you think it was any worse than when you stayed with me at the clinic while I was puking my guts out?” He nudged against him again. “I wanted to get you home.”

Matt considered that. Foggy didn’t seem bothered by it. There was comfort in having someone see you at your most pathetic and realizing that they don’t find you pathetic at all.

Matt leaned a little into Foggy’s physical contact. “Have you talked to Steven?”

“I have.”

“It was him. Steven gave them my name.”

“He told me. I talked to him yesterday morning after they took you.”

The now familiar anger was rising again, but Matt knew he was being hypocritical. He himself had given up names while under duress. He asked Foggy, “Did they hurt him?”

“No. They had him in a cell for three hours. He told them you spoke at the abolitionist meeting, so they'd let him go home faster.”

“Three hours in a cell,” Matt laughed bitterly. “The interrogator asked me how I knew Steven. I told him we studied together.” Matt didn’t want to tell Foggy the rest of it. He hated himself for being weak and choosing physical comfort over the safety of his friends, and he was ashamed to be anything at all like Steven. “I gave them Dylan and Tara’s names.”

Foggy would think he was a coward, would call him on it. He had to be upset, right? Matt waited for a reaction, but all Foggy did was lean forward and kiss the top of his head before getting up to get go through his morning routine.

... 

They were ready to go, and while Foggy was putting on his jacket Matt ran a finger over his forehead. “Is the ink still visible?”

“Yeah, it is.”

Matt had scrubbed at it again while getting ready that morning. “I could wear a hat...?”

Foggy tossed a winter cap at him, and Matt caught it out of the air. He pulled it down to his eyebrows. “Is this good?”

Foggy stepped forward and adjusted it.

Matt held out his hand. “Still here too?”

"Yeah.  The rest of your stuff is on your desk,” Foggy said, and Matt ran his hand over the tabletop. His fingers found the familiar objects, identifying them easily: his sunglasses and the wristband Foggy had bought him for Christmas. He put both of them on. It felt good. Like he was reclaiming pieces of himself.

"Did anyone see you yesterday? You were gone for a long time.”

"I needed some time alone." Matt didn’t want to tell Foggy he spent the time hiding out in a secluded corner of the storage room. “You were asleep when I got back.”

He wanted to thank Foggy for cleaning the bathroom, for being patient, for not giving up on him. No one had ever fought for him with the tenacity that Foggy did, not since his father died.

The cafeteria was open, but it wasn’t Lynn working at the counter. Instead, standing in her place was a girl Matt had never met; he tried not to read into that.

Yet, he couldn’t help but wonder. Had Lynn been involved in the protests? Did she get picked up in the mass arrests? He’d spent less than a day in the detention compound, what would happen to someone who didn’t have a steadfast and determined soul like Foggy standing up for them?

Foggy was fiddling with his phone while they ate, catching up on the latest news. He snorted with disgust. “Every detention complex in the state has been converted into a holding area for detainees.”

Matt wasn’t hungry, but he ate. Everything tasted of cardboard. There had to be something wrong with the food.

“Are you okay?” Foggy asked, apparently having noticed his lack of enthusiasm.

“It doesn’t taste right.”

Foggy held out his hand and Matt passed him the spoon. He made a big ordeal, smacking his lips and making gratuitously disgusting chewing noises. “Tastes like oatmeal, buddy.”

Matt stole a slice of Foggy’s toast. “Anything else in the news about the arrests?”

“Over a thousand arrests were made. Supervisors will get an email notification when their wards have been processed and cleared.”

Matt pushed his bowl aside and took a packet of jam off Foggy’s plate to spread on the toast. Blueberry. Nope, even that didn't taste right. “Do you think Dylan and Tara will be okay?”

“Yeah. I was there when the service rep was talking to the guy who interrogated you; you didn't tell them anything they didn't already know.”

There was a dent in the table under his index finger. Matt’s fingernail found it and he scratched at it. They knew he was innocent, and they arrested, humiliated, and interrogated him anyway. It was a show of power. They wanted him and every ward in New York to know they weren’t safe, and the Centre was still in control.

This was all wrong. Someone had to stop them.

“I— I’ll be right back. Bathroom,” he mumbled before he quickly made an exit. In hindsight, it was a good thing he hadn’t eaten much breakfast. The little of it he retched out left a sour taste in his mouth that lingered all the way to their next destination.

....

It turned out the Centre Assistance Kiosk was in the same building as the DMV.

“Seriously?” Foggy commented with exasperation when he realized that particular fact.

“It makes disturbing sense don’t you think?” Matt answered.

The only DMV that also offered Centre Services was over at Madison Square Gardens. Foggy printed out a travel pass for Matt, and they took the transit to Penn Station. It was only a short way on foot from there.

It was funny, Matt wondered, how much he’d gotten used to not wearing a collar. He’d tried wearing a scarf, but the extra material had felt too restricting. He ended up going with nothing covering the collar. It wasn’t like his status was a secret, everyone on campus knew what he was.

Still, being in public was different. He could sense people staring, whispering to their companions after they passed. It was normal for people to avoid bumping into him when he walked with his cane, but this? None of this felt like a courtesy.

The way people stepped around him, it was almost as though he might give them the plague just by being there, walking among them. Matt wished he could.

The DMV was a huge building. The underlying scent of a bleach-based cleaner permeated the air, sharp and acrid in Matt’s nose. It was worse than the throwing up—and that said a lot.

The downstairs level was comprised the Department of Motor Vehicles branch, and it wasn’t difficult for Foggy to find the way to the Centre Services Kiosk Clinic. He explained to Matt that is was signposted to be up the stairs to the right.

The stairwell smelled like the Centre. Matt knew this scent all too well. The odor grew stronger as they ascended. It wafted through the air in thick swirls, clinging to him, wrapping themselves around him—constricting, suffocating.

Foggy tugged on his arm; Matt hadn’t even realized he’d stopped. “You okay, Matt?”

He nodded. “Yeah, just... It’s the smell.”

“Do you want to leave?”

“No. It’s okay, we’re already here. Let’s do it.”

The waiting room had exactly ten chairs, and they were all empty.

He followed Foggy as they approached the kiosk, trying to listen to their surroundings. What he could make out was that there were several treatment rooms. He could hear people inside them. A woman sat behind the counter, her floral perfume mixing with a hint of mint from the gum she was chewing.

Matt kept his expression neutral as she lethargically squished the gum between her teeth. Her voice sounded just as enthusiastic. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No.” Foggy leaned against the counter, and placed his cloth bag on the desk where it settled with a thunk. “We need to exchange collars.”

“And?” the receptionist asked.

“He’s wearing a temporary collar; they wouldn't give me the key, but I was told you’d be able to take it off for us here.”

The woman turned to her computer. “Account Number and Ward ID.”

Foggy told her the numbers. She asked to verify with Matt’s ID, and he rolled up his cuff and unfolded the fabric wristband cover before holding out his arm.

She entered the number into the system, was quiet for a minute, reading.

“Yeah. I can set up a fitting for you.” The chair squeaked as she turned towards them. “But the file says your ward is overdue for a medical check-up. We’ve had numerous cancellations if you want to book it in for today.”

“Um.” Foggy stalled and squeezed Matt's arm. “Matt?”

He was tired. The idea of someone scrutinizing every inch of him, touching him, assessing, prodding, judging—it made him want to turn around on the spot and bolt. He just wanted the collar off, that was all. 

Then again, they were already here. It would be convenient, they wouldn’t have to take a separate trip to the Centre Clinic in New Jersey. Matt gave himself a push that seemed like a giant leap. He nodded. What more could they do that they hadn’t already done?

“How long will it take?” Foggy asked.

“We can take him in right away. The exam will take about an hour. Have lunch, or go shopping and leave me your cell phone number. I’ll call you when he’s ready to be picked up.”

“Can I go in with him?”

“Your nurse will discuss the procedure with you when she is ready.” She snapped her gum, pulled out a form, and attached it to a clipboard. “Fill these out, please.”

Foggy took it and led Matt over to the chairs to sit down. The receptionist cleared her throat, and Matt sensed her waving her arm at something.

“Oh,” Foggy said. “There’s a sign. Wards sit over there.”

Foggy changed direction and led Matt across the room. He let Matt find his seat—hard and uncomfortable plastic chairs compared to the larger cushioned seats on the other side of the room. Foggy sat down in a chair beside him with a low, unhappy sound.

Matt leaned close. “Aren’t you supposed to be sitting over there?”

“The sign only says where wards should sit. It says nothing about where their supervisors should go,” Foggy arranged the clipboard on his lap. “And, look at this. Cause, yay, more paperwork. What do we have here,” he narrated as he read out the general information questions, and then he came to the second page. “There’s a questionnaire.”

“What kind of questions?”

“Not the good kind.”

Matt listened to Foggy tap his pen against the paper as he went through, hearing him sigh or grunt at whatever he was reading. “Foggy?”

“These are just— they’re the typical, demeaning bullshit. Do you want me to read them out loud?”

Matt nodded.

Foggy sighed. “Okay. There’s, uh, twenty questions in total. Different sections. Health, emotional stability, obedience, and productivity. The first part, health, is straightforward. How many calories of dietary intake a day, the number of meals, hours of sleep, daytime energy. What should I put for the calories? Doesn’t it depend on what we’ve been eating?”

“I think it’s geared towards calorie-restricted diets,” Matt explained. “Somewhere around twenty-five hundred should sound right.”

“Okay,” Foggy wrote it in. “The emotional stability part has stuff like, does your ward act worried, anxious or fearful, complaints of headaches or sickness, refusal of food. I marked no for that.”

“I don’t refuse food.”

“Of course, you don’t,” Foggy said, “Which is why I marked it no. Mm, it also asks if your ward is listless or exhibit bouts of moodiness, depression or anger. You sure you want to hear the rest?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Obedience. Does your ward show signs of defiance, does he follow orders without hesitation, has he ever been caught or suspected of stealing, does he lie to avoid discipline, does he answer questions in a respectful tone? The last part is productivity, so it has stuff like rate your ward’s level of productivity between one and five. Does he perform with attentiveness, does he carry out assigned tasks, is he easily distracted from his work, does he use his time efficiently? That’s it.”

Matt listened to Foggy sign his name with a quick scribble at the bottom and then get up to hand it to the receptionist.

Matt stayed where he was and tried not to overhear conversations taking place in the treatment rooms. A man with a broken wrist was asked how the injury happened and answered that he’d done it himself.  _The bruises on your arms, too_ , the nurse asked him. _Yes_ , he replied. In another of the three rooms, he could hear two people breathing, but there were three heartbeats. No, the third was far too faint and fast. A pregnancy. He couldn't tell how far along the mother was, but she was crying.

He didn’t want to listen anymore.

Foggy came back and sat down, providing a welcome distraction when he started describing the web page he spotted the receptionist had been looking at right before switching the page back to the official Centre site. "I'm a little worried I might go blind just from having glanced at it."

"That explains her heart rate then," he lied. He had no idea what her heart rate had been, but the laugh he got from Foggy in response was worth the embellishment. 

"Honest to god, I swear those people must have had their limbs dislocated to bend into those kinds of positions."

Matt grinned. He wasn't the only one embellishing; in his experience, the more Foggy swore to be telling the truth the more ridiculous the stories usually became. "You've never heard of contortionists?" he asked.

"Of course, I have. These were quality circus acrobatics we're talking about here. I mean, like aerial swinging and everything." 

Just then, a nurse walked into the waiting room. “Franklin Nelson?”

Matt stood up with Foggy. She waved them forward. “This way.” His first impression of her was that her voice was stern but young, and the scent of strong black coffee and hand sanitizer followed her as she led them forward.

This time, Foggy took Matt’s arm, leading him forward rather than just the usual guiding. Matt trailed his fingers along the doorframe as they entered the small treatment room, his senses picking up counter and shelves, a vinyl padded exam table covered with a thin paper liner, and two chairs. He waited to be steered forward.

The nurse shut the door behind them. “So I see you’re here for a collar fitting and health exam,” she stated, and Matt listened to her walk around to his right side. The rustling of paper told him she was turning a sheet on her chart.

“I need to take a look at your bracelet to verify your identity,” she said, and Matt held out his arm. Her grip was firm, and her hand cool as she pushed up the cuff of his shirt and snagged the chain with her finger, pulling to get a better angle. “3A6H9N.”

“Matt,” Foggy said, reading the name tag on nurse’s uniform. “This is your nurse, Claire Temple. Ms. Temple, Matthew.”

She hummed but otherwise said nothing. Matt had to give Foggy points for trying, at least.

“Any aggression or defiance issues I should know about?”

Matt picked up on Foggy tensing beside him. It was a legitimate question; Foggy had to understand that. The nurse picked up on his reluctance to answer. “It’s easier to put him in restraints before we get started than to have to sedate him halfway through.”

Matt nudged him with his elbow hoping to communicate,  _please don’t piss off my nurse_. “No. There aren’t any issues,” Foggy said finally.

“All right then. Mr. Nelson, I have to ask you step out now. Regulations require that exams be conducted without supervision. You can leave your cell phone number with the receptionist, and she will call you when your ward is ready to be picked up.”

“Matt, are you okay with that?” Foggy asked.

He nodded. They both knew it didn't matter if he was okay with it or not.

“I’ll stay in the waiting room.” Foggy was almost out the door when he turned back to the nurse. “You won't do anything weird to him, will you?”

_Seriously, Foggy?_

“Nothing weird,” she assured him, and then she swung the door shut.

 

 


	38. Catastrophic Failure

Matt stood still, waiting. He listened to Foggy linger outside the door, following his heartbeat as he took a seat in the waiting room. He wasn’t far away and Matt took a breath allowing himself to relax.  

The touch of Claire’s hand on his upper arm was gentle but assertive as she guided him forward towards a chair, asking him to take a seat.

He shrugged off his jacket and hung it on the backrest.

“Matthew, as your supervisor said earlier, my name is Claire. Under Centre regulations, you are now under my care for the duration of this appointment. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Why would he not understand that?

“In my role as a health provider, everything you say is confidential and will not be reported back to your supervisor. Do you have any questions?”

“No.” He'd been through medical exams before; he knew the routine. The faint rustling of paper outside told him that Foggy was flipping through the pages of a magazine.

“Matthew?” Claire said again, a little louder.

Right. Shifting his focus back to her, he tried not to let his expression convey his irritation at the whole procedure. Obstinacy wouldn’t earn him any favors, and as a heath provider, Claire had complete and total power over him for the duration of his appointment. He tried to angle his head so that his eyes would face the same direction as her face.

“What are your work duties, Matthew?”

The Centre knew he was a student at Columbia. “I’m being trained to work for my leaseholder,” Matt answered, intent on providing as little information as possible apart from what was already on official forms. Submission to Centre agents was mandatory, but he didn’t need to be an enthusiastic participant.

“What kind of tasks do you perform for your supervisor?”

“General cleaning, laundry, household chores," he answered, wondering what any of this had to do with a general health check.

“Any sublet jobs?”

“No.”

"You don’t work on weekends?"

"No," he said again. "I only work with my supervisor."

“I see he has you sleeping in the student dorms with him rather than in the shelter. Would you like me to issue a recommendation for a wellness inspection?”

Matt picked at the hem of his shirt. “That’s not— it’s not necessary.”

She stopped writing and paused. “Why isn’t it necessary?”

Because since gaining access to a computer, Matt had more information at his disposal about the regulations and practices of the Centre than he’d ever thought possible. Confine a person to a seven-by-five-foot room and rarely allowing them out of it—not a problem. Make a person kneel in stress positions for hours while reciting tenets—standard discipline routine. Terrorize an individual with repeated electrical shocks to the back of the neck—officially sanctioned training technique.

The practice of inflicting severe pain as punishment or incentive for a ward to do something was well within the scope of allowed disciplinary action. It was all just Centre-endorsed torture, and nothing would change because the Centre had ingrained itself into the economy of the country, and people with money were the ones who made the rules.

The rules were designed to keep wards passive and subservient.

A wellness inspection—what would that mean for him and Foggy? They would come in and be granted leave to tear his life apart. They could insist that he be moved to the communal ward shelter on campus. All the things that Foggy had done for him, like giving him a spending account, giving him a computer with unlimited internet access—it was discouraged or outright prohibited.

He knew with certainty that this couldn’t happen. But how could he stop it?

Claire stayed quiet, and Matt didn’t know what to say, which prompted her to place the clipboard aside. “If there is something I can help you with, I’m here to listen.”

Matt paid attention to her tone, to her heart, and what surprised him was that she sounded sincere. It was ironic that now he was in a good situation, someone was asking these questions.

At the laundry factory, the other wards knew what the supervisor had been doing to Matt. At the church, everyone knew his situation, and even Mrs. Beaty, who had been kind and who cared, never spoke out against the way they kept him confined. After being sold to those sadistic bastards on the auction site, there had been people who hadn’t participated in the abuse, but they certainly hadn’t stopped it. All it would have taken was one person to report what was happening to the authorities.

No one _ever_ did anything. Why now when he didn’t need help, should this nurse, Claire, suddenly be different?

“Matthew, is there anything you'd like to tell me?”

"It's a good placement." He tried to sound reassuring, but she could just as easily interpret his contentment with Foggy as a cause for alarm because surely there had to be something wrong if a ward felt comfortable with his supervisor. "I like where I live. I like going to school, and my supervisor is a good person." What else could he say to convince her? To explain that he and Foggy were friends was out of the question.

Her satisfaction with his explanation wasn’t clear, and Matt wished he could see what she was writing on the paper attached to her clipboard. “Remove your cap and glasses please.”

Matt pulled it off and stuffed it into the sleeve of his jacket where he’d be able to find it later and then passed his sunglasses to her, and she placed them aside.

“You were detained yesterday.” She was reading out loud off his online profile and then looked up at him. “That marker stain on your forehead, I can remove it with an alcohol solution.”

She walked back over to her table, opened a bottle of strong smelling alcohol solution, and then rolled her chair up to his, facing him. The swab was cold on his forehead, the pressure gentle.

 “How did your face get bruised?”

“I fell.”

It wasn’t even a lie. He _had_ fallen out of the truck, but she didn’t believe it. How many stories did she have to listen to of wards injuring themselves to cover up for abusive supervisors and leaseholders?

“Your last exam was five months ago when we reclaimed you from your previous lease placement. You spent a month in the rehabilitation clinic, and then three weeks in the Market, after which your current supervisor picked you up. Does that sound right?”

“Yes.”

“Have you sustained any serious injuries since that time?”

“No.”

“Remove your shirt please, Matthew.”

The thin cloth gown she passed him was made of a rough cotton with prickly thread, and the chemical scent clinging to the fabric took him back to the two years he spent working in the laundry factory. Other scents mixed in with the material strengthened the connection in his mind, the oil to maintain the machines, the sweat and body odor of the men who folded linens at the tables. If the gown hadn’t come from the same factory he’d worked at, he knew it was from somewhere similar. She got up and stood behind him. “I’ll unlock your collar now. Will that be a problem?”

Matt frowned. A problem with having the collar taken off? That piece of metal around his neck was a constant reminder of his time at the compound. He wanted the collar off. And yet, having her hand near his neck made his skin crawl with dread.

It was strange—he wasn’t this anxious with Foggy. Why was it that anything near his neck was always unnerving, but with Foggy it was just different?

Claire placed her hand on the top of Matt’s head, easing him forward, and he held his breath.

The key scratched in the locking mechanism, the metal pressed against the wounds on his skin. All his muscles tensed on reflex.

 _He remembered kneeling on the floor in his supervisor’s office at the Laundry Factory, his supervisor’s grip on his neck_ _—_

 _No_ , he reminded himself. Only the present mattered. There’d been no sign that this nurse wanted to hurt him. The easiest way to distance himself was to focus further away, and he instinctively fixated on Foggy. He concentrated on the sounds beyond the small clinic room and found Foggy again by pinpointing his breathing pattern—the way he sighed and the quick snort when he read something funny. _Foggy was still waiting for him._

“I’m taking off the collar,” Claire warned.

Matt braced himself.

The nurse paused. “Matthew, it’s okay. I’ll try not to hurt you. Take a deep breath, let it out.”

Indoctrinated obedience took over, and Matt took a deep breath. Unpleasant shivers ran along his back as she released the pressure lock and the metal band snapped open. She paused for a moment, her fingers hovering over the wounds at the back of his neck. “How long have you had these burns?”

“They’re from yesterday.”

“Nothing from before that?”

“No.”

“Stay still for a moment while I clean the wounds.”  

The cold, wet cotton might have been relieving on his skin if there wasn’t that extreme anxiousness of having her so close. He felt relief when she said, “Done.”

The wheels of her stool moved again as she pulled her chair up in front of him.

“Matthew, please keep your eyes open for me.”

She was silent for a moment, and he flinched when she prodded the skin around his eyes. “The infection documented in your file from your last assessment at the Market seems to have cleared up. Any irritation, dryness?”

“No.”

He heard a click of what he assumed to be a penlight, her hand waved in front of his face. “You haven’t always had corneal scarring, have you?”

No. Whatever toxic material been in the truck that blinded him as a child, it had stolen his vision while leaving his eyes clear. The scarring on his corneas, like all his other scars, were just another part of the legacy of the abuse he suffered after being sold off by the Church.

He’d known it was bad. The way Foggy had cringed when he undid the blindfold Matt had made for himself back at the Market had told him that much. It had been frightening, not being able to prevent Foggy from finding out how damaged he was. He hadn’t changed his mind about taking him, but he’d let Matt use his sunglasses to hide behind and then replaced them when those were lost. Foggy said nothing negative about his eyes when Matt removed his sunglasses, but Matt tried to keep them on as much as possible out of respect. He forgot sometimes.

It was easy to determine how terrible he looked by the reactions of people around him. He’d tested it when Foggy wasn’t around, gauging his classmate’s reaction with his glasses either on or off. The way they froze or looked away when they looked at him told him everything he needed to know. It was luck it was only his eyes that got scarred, not rest of his face.   

“The cause of the injury isn’t in your records,” Claire prompted.

It wasn’t. Because he had never told anyone.

After being found by the police and reclaimed by the Centre, he’d been questioned, _“Let’s start with a statement. Tell me what they did.”_

Four years in the system and he still hadn’t understood what it meant to be a state-ward or what legal obligations a leaseholder had regarding his welfare. All he knew was that he had no rights, he was powerless, and at the mercy of his supervisors and leaseholders.

_“We do what we want because you are worthless, and no one cares what happens to you, Matthew.”_

It was true. Even Lynn had known he was a throwaway.

But even as a throwaway, he didn’t deserve what they did to him.

It was much more difficult to make his voice work than he'd anticipated and it came out small, quiet. “It smelled like bleach.”

The silence stretched.

 _Shit._ _He knew it was a mistake. What was he thinking?_

But she didn’t get angry; her voice was gentle. “Matthew, may I document that in your file?”

“Please don’t,” he said, and he hoped it didn’t sound as desperate as he thought it might. The Centre had examined him for forensic evidence and taken photographs. Nothing would be gained by reopening the case file.

“Is there anything else you can tell me, Matthew?”

“No,” he said a little too quickly.

“Okay.”

She seemed to understand, but he had a strong desire to have Foggy by his side. “Can my supervisor sit in for the rest of the exam?”

“Do you understand why that isn’t allowed? As your health provider, I might need to ask you questions you won’t be able to answer in front of a supervisor. It is for your safety,” she explained. “Matthew? Are you ready to continue?”

“Yes.” He took a deep breath. “May I ask you a question?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Why do you keep saying my name?”

“Because a lot of my patients have heard no one say their name for months.”

Yes, he’d been one them until recently.

“I’ll listen to your heart and lungs now. Breathe normal for me.”

The front of the cloth gown was moved aside, and the metal of the stethoscope placed against his chest. She stepped to the side and reached around, placing the stethoscope on his upper back. _Breathe in, breathe out._

“Sounds good.” She examined his back, her fingers tracing over his scars. “Healing is going well. Have you been sexually active since your last check-up?”

“No.” Matt grit his teeth at the knowledge she yet again didn’t believe him if she was going to assume everything he told her was a lie, why bother asking him questions at all?

 “Based on your exposure history, I’m ordering another test. I’ll be taking blood for the routine lab values, and urine and swab analysis to check for STDs. Are okay with that?”

“Yes,” Matt said, annoyed that she kept asking if he was _okay with that_ _._ It wasn’t like he had a choice, did he?

The poking and prodding didn’t end there. She took a blood sample, and he followed the orders she gave him. But all things considered, the exam was quick, painless, and professional.

Next, she pulled something out of the drawer, placed a sealed bag and small container in his hand. “This is for the urine sample. Let me show you where the bathroom is.”

She led him through a door he hadn’t noticed of but should have been able to pick up on if he’d been paying closer attention to his surroundings.

“The sink is to your right. Soap dispenser on the left side, paper towels on the wall just above, garbage is below the sink and toilet in front of you. You’ll be okay on your own?”

“Yes,” he wanted to remind her he’d peeing successfully on his own for quite a few years now and bit his tongue. Blame fatigue and Foggy’s bad influence, but Matt knew better than to back talk a Centre agent.

Once he finished, he returned to the exam room where she asked him to sit back down on the exam table.

“How many activations have you had to the immobilizer implant?”

“Twice. One a couple years ago, the second was in October.”

“Your supervisor reported it as an accidental activation, correct?”

“Yes.” If running outside after curfew to save Foggy from getting beaten up could be called accidental.

“Have there been any residual side effects?”

“It’s been sore.”

“Sharp or dull pain?”

“Sharp, when I move a certain way.”

“And does it restrict your work activities?”

Not _work_ per se, “Yes,” Matt said, thinking about the fall he’d had at the skate park when he’d tried flipping off the edge of the ramp. Maybe there was something she could do to fix it, but he doubted anyone connected to the Centre would care enough to try.

“The model of implant you have is discontinued,” she informed him. “I’ll need to run a diagnostic scan.”

He heard her reach into the drawer to her right, pulling out something small, about the size of a cell phone. Claire placed it up against his lower back over the implant site; the implant grew warm up as the power turned on and a tingling heat spread up his spine as the leads responded.

“Is this uncomfortable?” she asked him.

He lied. “No, it’s fine.”

She placed her other hand on his back, the latex of her gloves against his skin, it wasn’t soothing, not at all. Her heart rate picked up and the device in her hand beeped.

“Is there a problem?” Matt asked.

“The readout is saying the detected device is faulty, immediate removal recommended, refer to health alert 98IE73R. Give me a minute.” She typed the code into her computer.

 _Removal?_ Her heartbeat remained steady, she wasn’t lying. “You’re going to remove it?” he asked.

“Not me. You’ll have to go to the Jersey in-patient clinic for the surgery. As you probably know, the implant has to be deactivated by authorized personnel at least a week before the surgery. Otherwise, removal will trigger a catastrophic failure.”

“And what do you mean by catastrophic failure?”

“Did they not explain this to you when the device was implanted?”

“All they said was that it would cripple me if I tried to tamper with it or take it out myself.”

“That may be putting it rather crudely, but that’s what it does. Paralyze or even kill you,” she explained grimly. “These things should never have been put in people to begin with.”

He agreed with her on that. She tapped again on the diagnostic tool over his lower back. “There might be tingling.”

It wasn’t exactly tingling. Maybe something closer to a cotton ball rubbed over the skin. That kind of fuzzy sensation it gave you—it was the closest analogy Matt could think of.

He flinched when the implant responded with a strong static shock. Heat built up in his lower back around the device, and the diagnostic tool let out a series of high-pitched beeps.

“Matthew lay on your side.” Her voice was abruptly more assertive. A steady hand on his shoulder gently, but firmly pressed him down. “I'm going to fix this.”

 _Fix what?_ The heat under his skin continued to intensify. “What’s happening?”

She tapped something into her diagnostic tool, then read out what it said. “ _This device is for authorized personnel only. If you have not been provided with permission to access this device - disconnect at once.”_

She turned around and typed on her computer again.

The temperature of the implant continued to increase. Matt continued to listen to her reading the information out loud under her breath.  _“Switch one enable, configure terminal, enter configuration commands, one per line, end with control z. Enter authorization code, end with character hashtag, login required, unauthorized use is prohibited. Update system configuration. Documentation after making system changes, confirm.  Switch one, exit_.” Her voice was quiet and tense, higher due to the stress on her vocal chords.

“Matthew, keep breathing for me, okay?”

Did he stop breathing? An unsteady gasp was as much as he could manage. “It’s hot.”

Her hand was cold against his skin, the pressure relieving for the short time she held it there before turning away and pulling something out a drawer, a liquid bag? A quick snap and the bag was pressed against his low back. Though it was cold against his skin, it did nothing to combat the growing heat inside.  

“Is this the catastrophic failure you were talking about?”

“Not if I can help it.” She turned back again to her diagnostic tool and read the numbers out loud as she typed them in. Nothing changed. Her heart was racing.  

“What’s going to happen?”

“Nothing, you’re going to be fine.”

Matt wanted to believe her, but he couldn’t. Her heartbeat, her quickened breathing, her rapid movements—he could hear too much. “Be honest with me, please.”

The energy was still building in the device, stronger than he remembered it ever getting with an activation.

“This _is_ me being honest. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

Several metallic implements fell to the floor before she grabbed what she was looking for of the drawer to her right. The cold pack was removed with swift movements. “Hold still for me, Matthew.”

He held his breath, stilling his body, clenching his fist and wishing he had someone to hold on to. What he wanted was Foggy.

_A catastrophic failure will paralyze or kill you._

Claire told him to keep breathing, and an involuntary whimper escaped his throat as he tried to breathe through another internal static discharge.

She pressed against his back. He couldn’t distinguish the shape or position of anything outside his body anymore, and then a sharp pain stole his breath away—sudden and violent. He turned his face into the padding of the exam table to keep from screaming. The initial shock rippling up his spine transformed into an intense spasm. Every muscle in his body tensed and coiled as the discharge merged with the heat that had already built up around the implant within.


	39. Hospital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Matt!"_   
>  _He tried to hold onto Foggy’s voice. Sensations ebbed and flowed like waves, trapping him in a constant undertow. He clawed his way up to the surface only to lose hold yet again and sink back down into the silence._

_"Matt!"_

_He tried to hold onto Foggy’s voice. Sensations ebbed and flowed like waves, trapping him in a constant undertow. He clawed his way up to the surface only to lose hold yet again and sink back down into the silence._

… 

Not home. Nothing felt familiar, not the sounds, not the textures, not the smells. Where had he been before? The noises, at first, seemed far away. Matt trailed his fingers along rough, threadbare cotton sheets. He listened to the shrill electronic beeping, the commanding voices he didn’t recognize, smells of antibacterial cleaning products, bleach. Illness. The DMV clinic? No. This wasn’t the Jersey Clinic either.  These sounds belonged to a real hospital. He reached out but couldn’t move more than an inch before a strap tugged at his wrist. 

He was a ward in a public hospital, of course he was restrained.  

His left hand was swollen and pinched. Liquid dripped from a tall stand to his left. An IV. A tube blew cold air into his nose, and there was another more invasive tube under his blanket. Being restrained only made the urge to move more potent, and he struggled against the bonds holding him in place. The pain hit like a vice crushing his back, so tight he could scarcely breathe. 

Footsteps stopped by his bed. A nurse with the lingering scent of cigarettes on her fingers gripped his arm, steadying him as a needle pricked his arm……. 

_No, no please no._

... 

The room rippled and twisted in Matt’s senses, but he detected two distinct bodies. Two heartbeats. 

“Will he be okay?” Foggy. Foggy was there in his room. 

“We’ll know more when the swelling comes down.” Matt recognized the nurse’s voice. 

He needed to let Foggy know he was alright. He needed to reach out and hold onto him, why couldn’t he move? 

Foggy’s hand touched his arm, brushing against the skin.  

“You aren’t permitted to be here.” 

_Please, don’t go._

… 

Matt woke up and Foggy was gone. The weight of a collar pinched at his neck. Nurses and doctors walked in and out, looking at his chart and tending to other patients. He tried to ask them questions; What happened? Where am I? Am I going to be okay? Other than to give instructions they refused to talk. 

He heard one of the nurses talking to someone younger, a student maybe? They spoke in hushed voices as she walked past in the hall. “If you have to go in there, don’t talk to the wards, they will try to manipulate you into helping them.” 

No one was cruel, just indifferent.  The clinical professionalism was a relief compared to the treatment he’d received at the Jersey Clinic. He could move his ankles and legs, that at least wasn’t a problem.  Matt didn’t want to think about the possibility that the malfunction in the implant had left him damaged. 

What had happened? Matt remembered Claire, the nurse at the DMV clinic; he remembered feeling the relief and excitement when she told him she would pre-authorize his implant for removal. 

Something had gone wrong. 

 _I’m not going to let anything happen to you_ , she’d said. 

He wasn’t okay. When the nurses changed the bandage on his back, he could feel the pull of the stitches over the implant site. Knowing the implant was gone wasn’t as comforting as it should have been. 

_Foggy, where are you?_

… 

A doctor came and lifted the sheets to expose Matt’s legs. She scraped something along the skin. 

“Do you feel this,” she asked, and Matt said he did. The doctor placed her hand on Matt’s foot and instructed him to push. Matt could do everything asked of him. That was a good sign wasn’t it? Even though he felt weak and the pain in his back remained persistent, he would be okay, right?  She wrote something on her chart and moved on without another word. 

There were nine other patients in his room, all wards. The various smells of illness permeated the air; infection, burns, and rotting flesh.  The woman in the bed next to Matt whispered to him in the night that her name was Edna. She sounded old and weak and Matt whispered back his name.  

“I don’t want to die alone.” 

“You aren’t alone,” he said, and he listened as her breathing became more labored overnight and then stopped. Her heart went silent.  

_Foggy, please come back._

… 

Time wasn’t stable, but he’d wake up when people entered and exited the multi-patient room. Someone came and took the deceased old woman in the bed next to his away, the bed was sanitized, and a new patient brought in.  

Nurses discussed his chart as they updated it at the end of his bed. “Shouldn’t the physiotherapist be seeing him by now?” 

“No, he has tier one coverage; they’ll be transferring him back to the Centre soon.”  

Matt tried to focus his attention on the music playing on the radio at the nurse’s station. The DJ announced the date and time close to commercial breaks. It was New Year’s Eve.  

Before Christmas, Foggy had mentioned knowing someone with roof access, he’d made plans to take Matt up there to listen to the fireworks together. Matt heard the distant thunder of the festivities from his bed and imagined how Foggy would have described the show.  

He wondered if Foggy had gone without him.

Foggy would come for him soon. 

… 

Sedatives coursed through his bloodstream leaving Matt tumbling through an ocean of nothing. He was aware of increased activity around his bed, straps pressed snug across his chest and legs, rocking motions.  

He felt nauseous as he woke up. The smell was different; it was heavier, pungent. Background noises had a different rhythm to them, he’d grown accustomed to the voices of the nurses at the hospital, now everyone was new and unfamiliar. 

This was the Jersey Clinic; he recognised it from when he’d been taken away from the people who hurt him at his last placement.  

The memories he had of this place were not good, but he knew he wouldn’t be here for long.  Foggy was coming.

Most of the personnel working in the clinic were other wards trained to do basic patient care duties overseen by nurses. There was no background chatter about families and favorite TV shows, and no music played in the distance. The only benefit was the restraints were removed and he could move his arms freely; what was the point of restraining someone when the entire building was a prison? 

The head of his bed was raised at meal time for him to eat sitting upright. A bowl and a spoon were placed on a tray on his lap, and the foul odor of the food inside flooded the room as other patients peeled the lids off their bowls. Fibrous supplement with added vitamins. The texture was like wet cardboard.  

He needed his strength to get better; he ate half. 

They would give him back to Foggy once he could prove he was recovering, wouldn’t they? He needed to find out how badly he was injured.  

Matt had tier one health insurance through the Centre and he understood what that meant. The government mandated that the Centre provide adequate care for their wards, what most people didn’t realise was that the amount of coverage was based on lease potential. Tier one included life-saving, necessary interventions and mandatory health checkups only.  It was the lowest amount of coverage the Centre could legally get away with.

The compensation for his lease-contract wasn’t enough to justify preventative or rehabilitative medical care. The Centre would not waste their resources on an asset who wasn’t worth it. No one was going to help him here, he needed to help himself. He could still move; he wasn't paralyzed. He was determined to push through the pain, doing nothing would get him nowhere. To start, he worked on just moving his legs, repeating simple motions. 

He could raise his knees up by sliding his feet along the mattress, but he couldn’t sit up yet.   

… 

_“Matthew.”_

Matt groggily responded at the sound of his name. The nurses and ward assistants never called him by name. 

Claire, the nurse from the DMV clinic. He shifted and grimaced as his back seized. Her hand touched his arm and he flinched from the sudden contact he hadn’t been expecting. 

“It’s okay,” Claire said. “Breathe through it.”  

“Hey, buddy,”  

The second voice came from his right. _He knew it_ , he knew Foggy would come back. He reached out and Foggy caught his hand and held on.  

“Matthew, I’m going to take care of you,” Claire explained. “Can you roll onto your right side for me?”  

He could do that, he’d been practicing. He pulled his feet up on the bed and then let his knees drop to the side while at the same time reaching with his left arm, he turned onto his side while keeping his back as straight as possible. 

Foggy crouched down so that his face was level with Matt’s, he could feel Foggy’s breath on his cheek he was so close. “I was afraid you wouldn’t find me,” Matt whispered.  

“Matt, I called the hospital every day to make sure you were okay. They wouldn’t let me visit.” Foggy rubbed his thumb along the top of Matt’s hand. “I had to track down Claire at the clinic-” 

“He stalked me.” She corrected. Latex gloves snapped as she pulled them over her hands. 

“Maybe a little, but-“ 

Matt squeezed Foggy’s hand. He didn’t care about any of that, he only cared that Foggy was here now. “Are you taking me home?” 

“Yes.”  

Claire made an abrupt noise. “I never said that. I told you I’d let you come along while I examine him, that was it.”  

“Totally coming home with me,” Foggy whispered, and Claire sighed.  

She pressed her fingers into his skin at intervals on either side of his spine. “The swelling isn’t too bad. Does it feel tender?”  

“A little.”  

The gauze on his lower back was peeled away and Matt flinched as she pressed a sensitive area. A cold, damp tissue cleaned around the incision, and a new bandage was applied.   

“Why are you still on a catheter? How often are they letting you get up to walk?” 

“I haven’t.”  

Claire’s heart sped up. “Ok, roll onto your back and we’ll see what we can do. Let’s get rid of this tube. It won’t take long, and your supervisor can wait in the hall for a moment.” A supply cart rattled at the end of the bed as she prepared what she needed, she changed her gloves.  

Matt gripped Foggy’s hand tighter. “Don’t go.”  

“Are you sure?”  

Matt nodded and turned his head to the left, towards Foggy. “Please, stay.” Foggy’s shoes scuffed the floor as he rotated so that his back was to Claire.  

Matt focused on Foggy and tried to ignore the cold air on his skin as Claire uncovered him. She placed a tray and a pad on the bed.  

He held his breath as there was a tug on the tube.  

“You’re going to be fine.” Foggy squeezed his hand. 

“Take a deep breath, let it out,” Claire said.  He did. It was done. She covered him up, gathered her supplies, and walked away to get rid of the used materials and wash her hands.  

“I’m sorry you were alone for so long.” Foggy leaned in close. “We’ll figure this out, I promise.” But Foggy’s heart was racing, he was scared. Matt felt his heart race to match. The Doctors would have updated Foggy on Matt’s condition, how bad was it? Why was Foggy scared, what did they need to figure out? 

“How about we try getting you sitting up?” Claire said, coming back.  

The head of the bed was raised, Matt managed to brace himself with his arm and then Foggy gripped him around the shoulders, helping maneuver him to the side and swing his legs off the end of the bed. Matt felt like he was being thrown into a dark void, and he couldn’t get a proper sense of anything around him. His head spun with nausea, but Foggy held on, steadying him. Matt leaned forward, his forehead resting on Foggy’s chest as he tried to bring his balance under control.  

His perceptions expanded just a little further as Claire tied the strings together on the back of his patient gown.  

“Do you think you can stand?”  Claire asked.  

Was she kidding? He couldn’t even sit.  

Matt nodded into Foggy’s shoulder. “If I can walk, can I go home?” Matt asked.  

“We’ll see.”  

“Ready?” Foggy asked.  

Matt nodded, he brought his arms up and linked his fingers behind Foggy’s neck.  

“I won’t let you fall.”  

“I know.” 

“On the count of three,” Foggy said. At three, Matt slid forward, his foot was barely on the floor before the spasms ripped through his back again and his knees buckled, but Foggy had his arms around him, holding tight.  

He couldn’t do it; it hurt too much. His breath came in shuddering gasps as he struggled to regain his balance. He had to do this.   

“Take it slow. Try again,” Claire said.  

Matt took a shaky breath and braced his foot on the floor. His hands were gripping Foggy’s shoulders tightly, but Foggy didn’t tell him to loosen up or let go. It was easier this time, more secure.  He breathed through the pain. 

“You okay?” Foggy asked.  

If it meant going home, Matt would do whatever he needed to. 

They stood together like that until the spasms gradually eased, and he took a step forward. Foggy moved with him, taking a step backward.  

“Are you having flashbacks to your senior prom?” Foggy whispered, and Matt laughed. “I’m getting serious Stairway to Heaven vibes here.” In that same pattern, they walked the length of the room.

Matt steadied himself, biting back the discomfort and the weakness. He wanted to go home. He removed his hand from Foggy’s shoulder and stood on his own. One step forward. It was slow, but he walked back across the room with Foggy close enough by his side to catch him if he faltered. Only the last few steps proved to be too much and Foggy supported him the rest of the way until he was safely seated safely on the bed again.  

“I can go home now?” he asked Claire.  

She hesitated. Claire didn’t even turn towards him. Instead, she spoke directly to Foggy. “He needs to rest.”  

It was a good thing Claire wasn’t looking his way; Foggy squeezed his hand telling him exactly how clear his feelings were showing on his face. It wasn't fair, he did what Claire wanted him to do. 

“I’ll take care of him.” Foggy insisted.  

It would be alright; he trusted Foggy to be his voice even when he had none. But still. None of that stopped him from wishing he could speak for himself and be heard.  

“You can file to be reimbursed for his missed days of work if that’s what worries you.” 

“It’s not. That’s what it always comes down to with you people though isn’t it? Value and productivity.” Foggy’s voice rose again. “I’ll take care of him. I’ve done it before.” 

“Before?” Claire asked. “Are you referring to after accidentally setting off his implant? Nerve interruption stimulus should be used as a last resort, not like it’s some toy.”  

That wasn’t what happened. “It was my fault, not Foggy’s.” Matt tried to explain. He shut his mouth as her heart rate spiked. Wrong, she was getting angry; he shouldn’t have spoken out of turn.  

Claire faced Foggy. “You are responsible for your ward’s well-being.” 

“And that’s why you should have consulted with me before messing with his implant.” 

“And what? Just because you are his supervisor I’m supposed to think you are looking out for his best interests and let you make those decisions instead?” Claire countered. Matt hated when people gave Foggy a hard time for being his supervisor. The system was terrible, but it was the system Matt lived in. What was Foggy supposed to do? Say, fine you’re right, being a supervisor makes me an asshole, sorry Matt, good luck at the Market.  

“Because I care what happens to him,” Foggy said.

“I have the authorization to make the necessary health decisions for our dependents.”  

“Having the authority doesn’t make it okay. He deserves-”   

Matt couldn’t listen to them argue anymore; why couldn’t either one of them just come out and explain themselves? Even if it meant getting in trouble for interrupting, he reached up with his free hand and grabbed at Foggy’s arm. “Foggy, it’s okay. She told me what she was doing. She was trying to help.” 

“And I’m supposed to believe that?” Foggy’s voice was hard, and Matt had to remind himself that Foggy wasn’t mad at him, he was mad at Claire, but that didn’t make it any easier to be at the receiving end of his temper.  

“I wouldn’t lie to you,” Matt said. Why didn’t anyone ever believe him? Even Foggy thought he was too damaged to be trusted.  _Wards lie to get their way all the time._

Foggy turned back to Claire. “You told me the device malfunctioned when you attempted to do a corrective procedure.” 

“If you thought I hurt him deliberately, why did you come to me for help?”  

“Because I don’t know anyone else.” 

“The device was faulty and needed to be removed,” Claire said. “If I’d told you that, you could have applied to the service agency to void my decision. It’s difficult enough getting procedures scheduled for tier one wards, I didn’t need a supervisor trying to block it because losing your ward for a few days would be inconvenient.” 

“Did you cause the malfunction?” Foggy asked.  

“No. All I did was enter the pre-authorization code; a glitch in the system sent the device into overload, and I had to trigger the system to save Matthew’s life.” 

“By activating the immobilizer.” 

“By allowing a controlled discharge.” 

“You could have killed him.”   

“He would have died if I didn’t.”  

“Let me take him home.” Foggy pleaded again. “You’ve seen for yourself they haven’t done anything for him here.”  

She hesitated before speaking. “I’ll fill out the paperwork to get him released into your custody.”  

“Yes!” Foggy jumped and raised his arms up in the air. “You hear that Matt? You’re coming home.”   

And Matt had no idea what possessed him to say what he did next. “I’m blind, not deaf, Foggy.”  

Matt froze.   _It was a joke. He didn’t mean it._

Claire froze too.  

Had he just back talked to his supervisor in front of a Centre agent? No matter that she wasn’t malicious, she even seemed kind; he couldn't forget that she was employed by an organization designed to keep people like him in submission.  Foggy wasn’t in charge of him here. Foggy didn’t have rights as a supervisor here. That was why Foggy couldn’t just decide, _Matt is coming home with me_ , and be done with it. Claire had the authority as an agent of the Centre. Her decisions superseded Foggy’s decisions, which meant she was also responsible for his discipline.  

The way Foggy’s heart hammered in his chest, he knew it too. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”  

Matt barely even heard him. All his focus was directed at Claire, but she was staring at Foggy.  

Foggy said to Claire, “He’s just tired, and I’m sure he’s sorry.”  

That would have been an excellent time for Matt to come out and say sorry, but he didn’t. He couldn’t get his mouth to start working.  

“You don’t want me to discipline him?” Claire asked. 

“No. We’re good here,” Foggy said, his voice unnaturally high with stress. 

“Right,” she agreed, her voice just as unsteady as Foggy’s. “He probably didn’t realize what he was saying.”  

“Yes, that.” Foggy agreed. “You’re feeling woozy, aren’t you Matt?” 

“Mm,” Matt agreed.  

“We’re good then,” Foggy said to Claire.  

“Yep.” She took a breath. “I’ll do those papers,” she said and walked out, her footsteps rushing down the hall.  

“I’m sorry, it was an accident,” Matt said quickly.  

“I know, it’s okay. We’re fine,” Foggy reassured him. “You look pale; do you want to lay down?”  

“If I lie down I’ll just have to get back up again.”  

“Okay.” Foggy sat down beside him and wrapped an arm around his back. “Is this hurting you?”  

“No,” Matt leaned against him, grateful for the support.  

“You’ll let me know if it starts to hurt?”   

Matt nodded. It hadn’t stopped hurting, but if it got worse, he would let Foggy know. Claire returned, and Foggy had to let him go to sign the papers and fill out the forms. Then Foggy placed a backpack on the bed and dumped everything on the bed. Matt brushed his hand over his shirt and sweatpants, smiling.  

He wasn’t sure how he would manage getting dressed, but Foggy stepped in and took over; undoing the ties at the back of the gown, manoeuvring Matt’s arms into the shirt and pulling it on over his head. Foggy knelt at Matt's feet and pulled up the sweat pants. He even had socks and shoes for him. Matt sat still, excited to go home, letting Foggy take care of him. 

“They won’t let me take the collar off until we’re outside. But as soon as we are, I’ve got the key with me.” 

Matt understood. Foggy would take the collar off as soon he could, he wasn’t worried about that.

Claire was leaning against the doorframe, watching, and Matt wasn’t sure whether or not Foggy was aware she was there. “Claire is still here,” Matt whispered.  

Subtle, he was not; Foggy turned his head to look. “I don’t think she trusts me with you, but don't worry, we'll be okay.” He stepped back to contemplate his work. “Ready?”  

“To go home? Of course.” Matt held out his arm and waited for Foggy to help him up. It was wobbly, but he did it. This time, when he stood up, his knees didn’t give out on him.  

_I’m going home._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, it's been difficult getting words to cooperate lately. :)


	40. Paper Planes

‘Ice cream,’ Foggy thought. They could both use a massive helping of ice cream.

The plastic bag with groceries and assorted junk food swung near his knee as he entered their dorm building. He just needed to climb the stairs, and then he and Matt could-

Matt. He was sitting right in Foggy’s path, at the bottom of the stairs to the main entrance. Barefoot in pajama pants and one of Foggy’s old t-shirts, his face pale. Foggy could see the exhaustion dripping off of him, the way he was gripping the bars of the banister so tightly that his knuckles were white.

“Matt,” he said, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m okay,” Matt answered, his voice strained. He was _not okay_.

“Yeah, I’m calling bullshit. Jesus Christ, you need to stop pushing yourself so hard. You only got out of the damn hospital yesterday. You shouldn’t even be out of bed, let alone wandering around by yourself.” 

Matt’s face looked even more pained and guilty, and Foggy sighed and bit back his frustration. He hooked his grocery bag around his elbow to free up his hands and crouched down on the stairs next to Matt. “Come on, let’s get you up and back into bed.” 

Matt didn’t protest, and Foggy supported him under the arm while Matt pulled himself up with the handrail. Matt’s steps were labored and slow—each one an effort. Foggy could see it in the pained grimace on Matt’s face and his sharp breaths.

Matt only made it five steps before stopping, his hand heavy on the banister. He was panting hard.

Foggy placed his hand between Matt’s shoulder blades, feeling the tense muscles there. He tried to keep the accusation from his voice. “Where did you want to go?”

“Nowhere,” Matt said between breaths. “I needed to stretch my legs.” 

“You need to be tied to the bed.” 

Matt snorted through his nose. “You wouldn’t do that.” 

“Okay, I won’t, but I’ll wish I had when I find your lifeless body at the bottom of the stairs next time. You need to _rest_.” 

Matt’s only reply was straightening up and taking another step. 

Together, they walked slowly back to their room, Foggy supporting some of his weight, Matt determined to push himself past his limits. 

Back in their dorm room, Foggy helped Matt sit down on his bed and Foggy put the ice cream into the mini-fridge before it could melt. Matt couldn’t quite hide the groan that escaped his lips, and Foggy studied him. “How bad is your back right now?” 

“About a three,” Matt volunteered hesitantly.

“On what scale? Out of ten or five?” 

“Three?” Matt grinned. “I’m kidding.”

“No, you aren’t.” 

Foggy grabbed the small plastic container on his nightstand. “You will take a painkiller. Don’t bother arguing.” 

“Who said I was going to argue?” To Foggy’s surprise, Matt held out his hand and Foggy placed the pill in his palm. A fresh bottle of water stood on the nightstand and Matt drank half of it in one gulp.

“I hate these things. They make me feel drugged.” 

“Which is why they’re called drugs, buddy.” Foggy sat down next to him. “Do you want to lie down?” 

“Not yet,” Matt leaned sideways against Foggy, and Foggy wrapped his arm around Matt’s back for extra support, careful not to touch the area where the implant had been. “Give it time. You will get better.” 

Matt let out a heavy breath. “What if I don’t?” 

“Then we’ll figure it out. Together.” 

Would they? What would happen if Matt didn’t regain full function? Would Rosalind intervene and refuse to cooperate when it came to renewing Matt’s lease? Would Foggy be able to pay for all the physiotherapy and ongoing treatments, special aid, whatever else Matt might need?

_Yes, Foggy would do whatever was necessary to keep Matt safe and healthy._

He couldn’t stop the tears that prickled in his eyes, and his hands came away damp when he wiped at his face. Fuck. He didn’t know what to do. Matt had almost died on the operating table. Matt had almost died, and Foggy had almost lost his best friend.

 “Foggy?”

He cleared his throat. Matt didn’t need him falling apart. “Yeah, buddy?” he asked, trying hard to keep the emotion out of his voice. Matt would hear it, wouldn’t he? 

“I’m sorry.” 

“What are you sorry for?” 

He waited for any kind of answer, it took time for Matt to find the words, but Foggy was patient. “You’re upset.”

How would Matt even know that? His sixth sense both amazed and weirded Foggy out sometimes. “Don’t be sorry. I’m just tired. I didn’t sleep much while you were away.”

Foggy moved over and helped Matt lie down and propped a pillow under his head. 

“I don’t want to be a burden; I want to be better for you.”

Oh hell. Foggy wanted to kick himself. He should have known Matt would beat himself up for needing to be taken care of. “You’re already the best. You will never be a burden.” 

Matt turned his head away and played with the edge of the blanket, picking at the fibers. He took a long moment to say, “Foggy, what happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“After my implant malfunctioned at the clinic, what happened?”

“Matt, you were in the hospital for a week, didn’t anyone talk to you?”

“They aren’t allowed to speak to us. You _know_ that.”

Foggy needed to stop underestimating the dehumanizing procedures of the ward system. “Why didn’t you ask me sooner?”

Matt’s voice was low, almost pleading. “I’m asking you now.”

It was easy to forget how much of a hold the system still had on Matt, and Foggy often didn’t even know there was a problem until he was left scrambling for damage control.

“What do you remember?”

“I remember something went wrong when Claire tried to access the program for the implant. After that, nothing.”

It wasn’t a story Foggy wanted to tell, but it was Matt’s story, and he deserved to know it. 

...

_The sound Matt had made when the implant activated haunted Foggy’s memory. Even worse than the sound of Matt screaming had been how abruptly it cut off. Five seconds was all it took for him to burst into Matt’s exam room. The sight of his friend convulsing on the table stopped him cold. It was when Matt stopped moving altogether that Foggy panicked. The Centre killed his best friend, here, in front of his eyes._

_And then Claire insisted Matt would be okay._

_Nothing was okay._

_He stood by Matt’s side, holding his hand until the ambulance arrived. A real ambulance, not that Centre Clinic bullshit. Claire assured him that Matt would be taken to a real hospital for surgery, the implant had malfunctioned and needed to be removed._

_Foggy took a cab to the hospital. He had tried tracking down a nurse to ask how Matt was but was only told that the hospital could not release any details about their patients, reminding him yet again how little power he had in regards to Matt’s health and safety. He’d been advised to contact the Centre for further information. As a dependent of the Centre, Matt’s welfare was in their complete control._

_Foggy felt helpless._

_Not knowing was the worst part._

_Well, no, that wasn’t correct; It could be so much worse._

_He checked the email on his phone every five minutes expecting a notice from the Centre- an update that Matt was paralyzed or worse._

_There were no emails. Foggy reassured himself over and over again that Matt would be okay._

_No news was good news, right?_

_He had to go home and get some sleep and shower or risk getting arrested for vagrancy. When he came back, he continued to harass the nurses for information until they threatened to have security remove him. All they would tell him was that Matt was alive, and that he would soon be transferred to the Jersey Clinic for recovery, and that the Centre would contact him._

_That was when he tracked down Claire, the nurse from the DMV Clinic, and Matt knew the rest from there._

_…_

“What aren’t you telling me?” Matt asked, and when Foggy said nothing, he grasped his hand. “Fog, please.”

“I got the email the Centre a few days ago. In it, there was a PDF attachment of an incident report. Matt, they activated your immobilizer during the surgery before removing it and your heart stopped. They had to resuscitate you.” 

The only response Foggy got was Matt tightening his grip on his hand. 

“I almost lost you, Matt.” 

“You didn’t, I’m here.” 

“I’m sorry you had to be alone in the hospital. I wasn’t allowed to visit.”

“You did visit. I remember you were there.”

“You were aware of that?” 

“I heard you.” Matt closed his eyes and stilled. Foggy thought for a moment he had fallen asleep but then he blinked again and grinned. “Have I ever told you I have _excellent_ hearing?”

“Only about a million times.” Foggy ran his fingers along Matt’s forearm making Matt shiver and raising goose bumps on his skin. “Are those painkillers kicking in, buddy?” Foggy asked. 

“Mm,” Matt answered.

 _That would be a yes_. Matt’s expression relaxed, his eyes randomly tracking around the room. Foggy considered himself an expert in Matt-isms and this was unmistakably drugged-Matt.

When Matt wasn’t wearing his sunglasses, he kept his eyes closed or his head turned away to avoid facing anyone. Moments like these, when Matt forgot to be self-conscious, Foggy took the opportunity to really look at him. 

He remembered what Matt’s eyes had looked like when they first met three years ago. Back then, Matt’s iris’s had been a rich brown color, they’d been perfect. Now, they his eyes were clouded, scarred by the eye infection he’d had when Foggy picked him up from the Market. 

The details were in Matt’s health records. His eyes had been deliberately burned with chemicals. What kind of monster would do that? The kind of monster who had owned Matt’s lease less than six months ago. 

Foggy skimmed his thumb over Matt’s temple, along the nearly invisible tiny white lines of scars. Matt turned his face towards him, eyes searching as though trying to see.

“Foggy?”

“Yeah, Matty?” 

“Am I going to be okay?”

“Can we talk about that later? When you aren’t high on meds?” 

Matt groped for Foggy’s hand, catching him and wrapping their fingers together. 

“I don’t know, Matt. The implant activated twice. We don’t know what that did to you. But will figure it out. Try to sleep, okay?” He stood, but Matt caught his arm. 

“Stay with me?” 

Foggy sat back down and stretched out beside him. He had to balance on the edge of the bed to keep from rolling off, but rested one hand on Matt’s chest, over his heart. 

_Matt’s heart had stopped during the surgery._

“Always, Matt.” 

…

Once Matt was asleep Foggy extracted himself from his bed and went to his computer. He already had a USB file with all of Matt’s information on it; the judge who sentenced him to being a state-ward, the processing files, medical reports, everything. It was information he went over time and time again looking for loopholes and possibilities, always finding nothing. 

Every time there was an article about an escaped or freed ward, Foggy recorded it, listing the circumstances and outcomes. It was important to keep up to date the ones who disappeared, who was recaptured, who was found dead, who remained missing. 

But, he hadn’t looked at it since exams started. Matt would want to go over the information again too, there was always the possibility of finding something they’d overlooked in the past. 

Foggy spent a good portion of the afternoon and the evening updating the files and got he USB ready for Matt to go through in the morning.

…

Matt sat in bed, his legs folded in front of him, painstakingly folding a piece of paper on his lap. 

“This would be easier at my desk.” 

Foggy was in the same position on his own bed, folding laundry into piles. “You were sitting there all morning.” 

Matt laughed. “I’m still sitting.” 

“You needed a break from the computer.”

“I wasn’t on the computer the entire time.”

Foggy made a frustrated argh noise, making Matt laugh out loud again. “Trust me on this. _I_ am not blind, and I can see how your forehead gets all pinched and weird when you’re in pain. You needed a break.”

“Are you saying my face bothers you?”

“Your face is fine.” 

Matt held up the folded airplane, running his fingers along the edges. “Catch,” he warned and launched it. Even knowing it was coming, Foggy failed to duck in time, and it hit him on the forehead. “Ow. Seriously? You could have poked out my eye.” 

“Not even close.” 

It was true; Matt was scary-accurate.

Foggy tested the weight and balance of the plane. “Ready?” he asked.

Matt held a sock-ball loosely in his fingers. “Ready.” 

Foggy tossed the airplane up, and two seconds later it crashed to the floor, a hapless victim to Matt’s sock-missile. 

“Nice.” 

And that explained why it took two hours to fold laundry, but Matt was sitting down, resting, and smiling. That was worth every moment.

Foggy scooped the sock up from the floor and tossed it back to Matt. Then he threw the airplane again. However, Matt remained still, his head twitching to one side. The paper plane landed forgotten on Matt’s desk. “Someone is coming.”

Foggy dismissed it. “We live in a dorm, there’s always people coming and going.” 

“No. It’s- they’re from the Centre.” Matt sat up straighter, grimacing as he did so.

“You don’t know-”

“I do. I can smell it.” 

Okay, that was... It was weird, but Foggy had found that Matt wasn’t wrong about these kinds of things. 

He looked around in sudden panic. The floor was a mess of rolled up socks and paper and other garbage. Shit. Most of it, he could push under the bed, the rest Foggy scooped up into his arms and tossed in the corner. 

There was a knock on their door.

“Told you,” Matt whispered. 

Foggy rolled his eyes, a gesture sadly lost on the only other occupant of their room. 

Matt frowned. “Oh. It’s that nurse. Claire.” 

“How do you _know?”_

“I just know, okay?” 

He scooted forward and stepped across to Foggy’s bed to grab a sweater from the clean pile to pull on over his t-shirt. His movements were still slow and ginger.

Foggy waited for him to finish before opening the door. _Matt was right._  

“Um, hi?” Foggy greeted Claire awkwardly, placing himself between her and the room. 

She stood in the hall, her purse and a small duffle bag slung over her arm. “Mr. Nelson.” 

“Foggy,” he corrected automatically. 

She shrugged. “Can I come in?” 

“Why are you here?”

“Wellness check,” she said and handed him a pink slip of paper.

Foggy looked it over. She wasn’t wrong, any Centre agent had the right to conduct inspections without notice. His voice sounded maybe a little too defensive. “We weren’t exactly expecting company.” 

“And that’s the point of not announcing these visits,” she stated grimly. 

Did he have a choice? He sighed and let her in. She looked at Matt, now sitting in his desk chair. Her eyes wandered around him, getting caught on the desk and all the assorted items on it. 

Foggy’s eyebrows shot up. Because, yeah, there was a lot of weird crap on Matt’s desk. Toothpicks, clay, tiny dinosaurs, crumpled paper, yarn... If he were Claire, he’d probably be wondering what was going on there, too. 

“We were, um. Crafts.” 

 _‘Smooth, Nelson,’_ he winced as he chided himself. Matt raised his eyebrows before reaching out to grab something from behind him. Whatever it was, he stuffed it into the pocket of his sweatpants before Foggy could see it. 

“So this is where you live?” Claire asked, curiosity rather than contempt in her voice.

“Welcome to luxurious student dorms,” Foggy chirped.

“You don’t have a kitchen. What have you been feeding him?” 

Why did it have to sound so much like she suspected him of being an irresponsible pet owner? “Well, we have a fridge.” It was small but, what did she expect in a dorm room? “Matt, what did we eat yesterday?” 

“Lasagna for dinner, sandwiches for lunch.” 

Foggy looked back to Claire and shrugged.

“You always eat together?” 

“More often than not.” Foggy pushed some clothes aside on his bed and sat down, offering Claire his chair. 

She stared at the paper airplanes and pile of socks on the bed cover as she sat down. 

“Is Matthew getting any exercise?” 

Foggy was getting fed up with this. It was pretty ridiculous. “I know this is how you people do things, but wouldn’t it be easier for you to just ask him yourself? Matt this is just an inspection, she only has disciplinary privilege at Centre run facilities, you’re safe to speak openly.” 

“Foggy, a wellness inspection could-”

“I don’t think that’s what she’s here for,” Foggy said. If he was reading this situation right, Claire wasn’t here to write them up for infractions. 

“Matt, I think she’s legitimately worried about you.” There was no stamp on the inspection order she’d shown him. As an agent, she had the right to conduct inspections even without the stamped approval, but the lack of an official order meant she was doing it of her volition, and she didn’t seem the type to want to create trouble.

“I signed off on allowing you to take him out of the clinic, that makes Matthew my responsibility.” 

“Want something to drink?” Foggy offered. For a moment, he thought she would decline, but she nodded. Foggy passed her a Pepsi from the mini-fridge. “Sorry about the housekeeping. Or lack thereof.”

“Foggy’s been trying to keep me from getting bored,” Matt added. 

“With paper airplanes?” 

Foggy grinned, as Matt answered. “I fold them and Foggy pilots them.” Neither of them elaborated that Matt was the better pilot. 

“Do you mind if I check your stitches?” Claire asked Matt directly. 

“Matt, are you okay with this?” Foggy interrupted. It was still a delicate process to ensure Matt knew he had the power to say no, and as an agent, the likelihood of him feeling comfortable enough to say no to Claire was minimal.

“I don’t mind.” 

“May I use your bathroom to wash my hands? Matt, if you could lie down on your stomach?” 

“Oh, hey, wait. Let me just-” Foggy raced to beat Claire to the washroom, brushed past and shut the door. Quickly, he put their toothbrushes into a cup, wiped the counter, and picked up the wet towels off the floor.

He heard Matt say to Claire; _I’m usually able to help out more._

Damn. He was right. Matt was always picking up after both of them. 

He let Claire in and tossed a pile of damp towels in the hamper. 

“Am I always this messy?” he asked Matt. 

Matt laughed. “No, and you aren’t normally this stressed out or desperate to keep me entertained.” He hesitated before lying down. “You’ll stay?” 

“Not going anywhere,” Foggy promised. 

Matt nodded and laid down on his bed to let Claire do her thing. 

“You’re moving better,” she remarked as she lifted his sweatshirt and t-shirt at the back. “Any numbness or tingling?”

“No,” Matt said. “Walking is getting easier.”

“He’s still in a lot of pain,” Foggy added.

Claire peeled off the bandages. “Can the stitches come out yet?” Matt asked.

“How are they feeling?”

“Itchy.” 

“I think it should be okay, it’s been nine days, and the scarring looks healthy. Good thing I brought the medical kit.” She pulled Matt’s shirt back down. 

She carefully snipped the threads. Foggy didn’t want to watch, but he couldn’t look away. Each time the fine scissors touched Matt’s skin and slid beneath the dark thread of the stitch, Foggy winced. 

Honestly, he felt sick every time he saw Matt’s incision. It looked messy, the stitches coarse and uneven, like it had been carelessly patched up with a total disregard of aesthetics. And why was it that Foggy was still surprised about this? Matt’s ward status would have been apparent to the operating physician. Maybe they’d even let an unsuspecting rookie do his first practice run on a living, breathing human being without proper guidance. It made Foggy sick to his stomach. 

Claire used tweezers to pull out the ends of the thread. Foggy stood behind her shoulder watching. “He’s all right?” 

“Yes, everything is good.” She taped a new bandage in place over the healing wound and gently pulled Matt’s sweater back down. “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

“Depends on the question.”

Matt sat up, smoothing out his sweater, paying close attention. 

“What is the deal with the two of you?” 

“What do you mean?” Foggy asked. 

She stood up and walked over to Matt’s desk. “You’re not naïve, you know what you have going on here isn’t normal.” She waved her hand at Matt’s computer and the other stuff on his desk and around his bed. “I can see why he was so adamant against me issuing a wellness inspection. You’re breaking at least,” she craned her neck around again, “ten recommendations, and those are only the ones I can see.”

“You mean making him wear a collar, isolating him in a quiet room, calorie restrictions; that kind of thing?”

She nodded. “The lack of disciplinary tools. Do you even have any?” 

“I don’t need them. This is bullshit.”

“Foggy, stop,” Matt said and stood up to stand at his side. “Claire, I met Foggy three years ago in my first placement. He’s helping me.” 

Foggy put his hand on Matt’s arm, gently. “Matt?”

“It’s okay,” he answered and turned back to Claire. “You’ve seen my medical record; you know what happened in my previous placement. Foggy is making sure if I’m ever back at the market, I’ll be worth at least enough to find a better placement than where I’ve been in the past.”

“That won’t-”

“There’s no guarantee,” Matt insisted. 

Foggy closed his mouth, Matt was right, the future didn’t always pan out the way you wanted it to. “Just because everyone else treats him like shit, doesn’t mean I have to. Are you going to report us?”

“No. The riots and uprisings are making everyone suspicious. I don’t want to see either of you get in trouble.”

“Thank you,” Matt said. 

She sighed. “I shouldn’t be doing this.” She dug into her purse and pulled out a business card and a pen, writing a number on the back. “This is my cell number.” 

Foggy accepted the card and flipped it through his fingers as she turned to leave. 

“Wait. Before you go- Matt needs help, physio.”

“He’s tier one, he’s not covered for that.” 

“I’ll pay. I mean, is there anyone you trust that I could set up an appointment with? Someone who isn’t an asshole?” 

She raised her eyebrows, but then gave him a hint of a smile. “I’ll ask around and get back to you.” 

“Thank you.” Foggy reached over onto his desk and ripped a piece of paper off his notebook, scrawled his number on it and passed it to her.

Matt sat down in Foggy’s chair and Foggy watched him listen to her leave, tense and concentrating on distant noises until finally he relaxed. “She’s gone.” 

Matt pulled out the item he’d hidden in his pocket earlier and placed it on Foggy’s desk. 

“Holy shit.” Foggy took a step closer and saw the USB with all their research about the Centre and Matt’s lease on it. 

“We have to be more careful,” Matt said. “Just because she’s willing to help me, doesn’t mean we can trust her.”


	41. Moving Forward

“What’s that one called?”

Matt paused what he was doing, feeling more than slightly self-conscious. Because he knew it had to look strange to be on his hands and knees on the floor of their room, slowly arching his back up and down. “Cat and cow,” he grinned. “You’re going to tell me I look ridiculous, aren’t you?”

“Nope. Are the exercises helping?”

“They are,” Matt said as he finished and started a new exercise, extending his opposing arm and leg. His back twinged at the unfamiliar movements, but he gritted his teeth and pushed through the pain.

He’d had two physiotherapy appointments so far. As Matt’s supervisor, Foggy had needed to approve the treatment plan outlined by the therapist, but it was as his friend that he’d sat in and watched to ensure that Matt would be treated fairly despite his ward status. To Matt’s amazement, the appointment had gone better than he dared hope. The therapist spoke to him directly, rather than through Foggy, and she treated him respectfully and with compassion.

The clinic printed off a sheet of exercises that Foggy could help him with. After getting home, Foggy had sat down and traced all the picture lines with a ballpoint pen to add a tactile dimension to it that Matt could use on his own.

Follow-up appointments were booked, Matt insisted on spreading them out to reduce the strain on Foggy’s time and money. Foggy didn’t need to go with him, but Matt asked him to, and to Foggy’s credit, he never questioned why Matt wanted him to come along only to sit in the waiting room.  He wondered if the day would come when he could feel comfortable and safe going out in public on his own again. In the past four years, he’d been kept secluded under deliberately oppressive restrictions, and he knew how badly it affected his independence and confidence.

_He would get better; for himself and for Foggy._

“Can you... Do you mind helping me with this one?”

“Yeah sure.” Foggy sat on the floor beside him. “What do you need?”

“My left leg.” Matt did the extension. “My range of movement there isn’t as good as the right side, can you let me know if it’s too low?”

Foggy placed his hand under Matt’s knee and pushed his leg back up as it dropped. “Better?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

…

In the second week of January, the weather warmed up and the snow turned to slush, freezing overnight into giant ruts on the roads and sidewalks. Even with his senses, Matt found it difficult to navigate around the ice. The days stretched on as he slowly improved, but being holed up in their dorm room, there weren’t enough things to fill the day. And even though he tried not to be a burden to Foggy, he knew he wasn’t succeeding.

Their room was getting just a little too small, and Matt was getting too antsy. He worked on all the slow exercises he’d learned years ago from Stick, repeating the sequences over and over again.

He had to keep moving.

The restlessness made it difficult to concentrate for more than half an hour on any one book. He tried to spend as much time as possible going through the files Foggy compiled about the Centre, but that also required sitting at his desk, not moving.

He wasn’t able to sit still for long periods of time before his back tensed up and he had to move.

When Foggy wasn’t there, he walked the halls, climbed up and down the stairs. It wasn’t enough, though, he needed more of a challenge.

Long walks helped, on which Foggy liked to join him. They walked to Central Park and spent a day wandering the frozen trails and warming up in coffee shops. Foggy always noticed when Matt felt sore, and he slowed down or insisted they stop for a break. That wasn’t what Matt wanted, he needed to push through, not be held back.

In the daytime, Matt felt exposed and uncertain trying to navigate the streets as a ward, even with Foggy at his side. But at night... Nights were different. The few times he’d gone out on his own, or even with Foggy after dark, he felt different—more like his old self. In the dark, Matt had the upper hand. He didn’t have to hide who he was, and now without the implant, he didn’t have worry about being tracked or incapacitated by the press of a button.

He drew in a breath. “I’m going for a walk,” he announced.

Foggy grumbled from his bed. “It’s late, can’t we go in the morning?”

“I’ll go alone.”

“What if something happens?”

“I’ll be okay,” he said, but he could hear Foggy’s heart—he was worried. Foggy was everything to him, he hated causing him stress, or adding to it.

“I’ll wait for the morning,” he said, and right then, he had meant it.

He changed his mind when he lay in bed that night, wide awake and listening to the sounds outside their window—the cars going by, the crunching footsteps in the snow. The restlessness took hold and would not abate.

When Foggy started snoring, Matt eased out of bed and pulled on the hooded sweater and his jacket. He picked up his boots and carried them out into the hall to avoid making more noise.

Outside, he was alone on the deserted campus. There was a faint rustle of bare tree branches rattling in the breeze and the hum of street lights all around the campus. He took a deep breath, inhaling the surrounding scents, allowing the sensations to form a picture in his head. The ice crunched under his boots as he made his way towards the river. The city breathed its own rhythm, and Matt opened himself up to take it all in.

He wanted to run, to test himself, but he knew he wasn’t ready for that yet. Instead, he walked as fast a pace as he dared, making it all the way out to the skate park he’d gone to earlier that fall. Things would get better; his back would heal. But, then what? He would still be bound to the Centre.

He didn’t want to escape anymore, despite how much he hated being dependent, he didn’t want to leave Foggy or quit school.

Could he risk hoping again? Could he be content with what he had, or would resentment eat away at everything that was good in his life? He had a feeling that the bitterness would tear apart not only his own life, but Foggy’s as well. And one thing he was sure of: He didn’t want that.

The Centre wasn’t going anywhere. Nothing was going to change. There were good reasons to keep going; he needed to keep Foggy safe and take care of him, he wanted to do well in school.

This was the best he could hope for. He needed to be satisfied with that.

He drew in a sharp breath that chilled his nose and started walking back home. The first birds of the morning were singing by the time Matt made his way back to the dorm and into his bed.

…

The sound of their dorm door swinging shut startled Matt awake; he sat up and jumped out of bed in one fluid movement, regretting it immediately when his back complained sharply.

“Hey, it’s just me,” Foggy said, kicking off his boots and hanging up his jacket. “Did you just wake up?” He was carrying a small plastic bag.

“Mm,” he slowly eased himself back down and pulled the covers back up. “What time is it?”

“One-thirty,” Foggy laughed. “I’m not surprised you slept in. You were out really late last night. What time did you get back?”

Foggy knew he went out? Matt stayed still. “Are you mad?”

“I was worried. Where did you go?”

No, Foggy wasn’t angry, Matt wasn’t sure what to make of his mood. “For a walk. No one saw me; I went out by the river again.”

There was a moment when Matt worried that Foggy was upset with him, after all. Foggy’s heart rate increased in speed several notches, and his breath quickened. But there was something else. The crinkle of the plastic bag told Matt it was now being held out towards him.

“Take it,” Foggy said.

“For me?” Matt sat up and took the bag from Foggy’s hand. It wasn’t heavy, there was one item inside; a small rectangular box. He pulled it out. The box was smooth, thick cardboard, store sealed. “What is it?”

Foggy sat next to him on the bed. “Go ahead, open it.”

Matt felt the edges and found the seam, used his thumbnail to peel off the circular tape on either side to open the lid. The scent of industrial plastic and metal wafted out. The first thing he could feel of the contents was a small booklet, and under that a smooth, flat surface.

He pulled it out and held it in his hand. “A phone?”

“Yeah. It’s for you, but also for my peace of mind, so you can call me if you need help. I should have gotten you your own phone long ago.”

Matt ran his fingers over the glossy screen and the back cover that had a pattern with small square grooves. “You’re okay with this? With me sneaking out at night?”

“You don’t have to sneak, Matt.” Foggy gently removed the phone from his fingers. “Let's set it up.”

It didn’t take long. Matt listened to Foggy narrate the steps he took to sign into Matt’s account—an account Matt hadn’t been aware he even had. Foggy programmed his own phone number into the contact list before turning on the accessibility options.

“So, what you do is tap that button here, and tell it what you want it to do. Volume buttons are on the side, the power button on top.”

He experimented with the voice feature and told it to dial Foggy’s phone. They both grinned at the resulting ring tone coming from Foggy’s pocket before Matt swiped his thumb across the lower half of the screen to end the call. “Foggy, I don’t know what to say.”

“Thanks will do.”

“Thanks,” he said in a hushed voice.

It wasn’t enough. For everything Foggy had done for him, and _kept_ doing for him. Matt could spend his entire life trying to make up for it, and it still wouldn’t be enough.

They were both quiet as Foggy picked up the box and instruction booklet, and Matt played with the features on his phone. Foggy was by his desk now, and he held something up.

“There was a letter addressed to you in the mail.”

Foggy passed him the envelope. It was unopened. “What is it?” There were no discernable markings on the outside. No particular smell to identify it.

Foggy shrugged. “From student services. I don’t know, it’s addressed to you.”

Matt frowned. “How can it be addressed to me?”

“It’s got your name on it, care of Franklin Nelson.”

The edges weren’t glued down completely, and Matt slid his finger underneath to tear the envelope open. There were three pages. He was about to pass it to Foggy to read it out loud when he felt the indents across the page. The papers were in Braille.

He oriented it correctly, fingers tracing over words he could barely believe. Because, holy crap! His hands shook as he went over it again to make sure he hadn’t misunderstood.

“Matt? What does it say?” Foggy voice was worried now. “Is it something bad? You know whatever it is, we’ll deal with it, right?”

Matt moved his mouth but no words came out. Because, hell no, it wasn’t anything bad.

He tried again, “It’s... it’s good news,” he stammered, then cleared his throat. He could still hardly believe it, and the smile that spread across his lips may just as well have been as wide as the Brooklyn Bridge. “They’re removing my student restrictions. I’m getting— I’m getting a student card.”

“Holy shit!” Foggy exclaimed. “Really?”

“Yeah. Really.”

And then Foggy was there next to him, his arm around his shoulders, squeezing him tightly against his side. “Matt, that’s— this is going to be great.”

“Yeah, it’s unbelievable, isn’t it?”

_It was incredible._

It meant he could go to class and sit where he wanted to. It meant he was allowed to ask questions and take part in class like anyone else. I meant having the same access to the library and facilities as anyone else. It was more than he could ever have hoped for.

Then again, in the last four years he had learned this the hard way: The more you have, the more can be taken away.

 


	42. The Night

More than anything, Matt wanted to belong.

Not to belong _to_ someone. Obviously, not that. But, to belong _with_ someone. He had Foggy. Foggy who trusted him, who fought for him, who never even considered abandoning him because he was too much trouble or not exactly what he wanted. 

Matt jumped up the side of a garbage bin and caught the lowest hand rail of the fire escape ladder to pull up on, used the ledge beside that to boost himself up to the next level and then jumped onto the roof of the lower building next door.

Laundry flapped in the cool night breeze; there was a nest of pigeons on the southeast corner, but otherwise the immediate area was clear. Beer cans and cigarette butts were scattered in a cardboard box beside an old nylon lawn chair, and he took the opportunity to sit down and rest.  These nightly excursions weren’t only about exercise.  He used the time to destress from the day, away from Foggy and school and most importantly breaking from the constraints and restrictions of his status as a ward.

It wasn’t that things weren’t going well, school was great, even better than he had anticipated. On the first day of the new semester, he’d stood at the front of the classroom and Foggy had asked, _where do you want to sit?_

 _Where do I want to sit,_ he asked himself? It was something so trivial, something no one else had to worry about, and that one question nearly unnerved him.

 _At the front._ Matt wasn’t even sure of his motives. Did he want to sit at the front, or was it just defiance against his earlier restrictions of having to sit near the back?

Nevertheless, they sat at the front. Matt had chosen to take the same classes as Foggy, and Foggy stayed by his side through the entire day, the front row probably wasn’t his first choice of seating arrangements, but he never complained. They’d both been nervous about the professor’s reactions to Matt having his student restrictions removed, but throughout the whole day, the most remarkable thing that happened was that nothing terrible happened.

Every day that passed since then and still nothing bad happened felt like a game of Russian roulette. Matt grew more and more tense, anticipating disaster to strike at any moment. He already knew with grim certainty that when good things happened, he couldn’t count on them to last. 

Being with Foggy, having the opportunity to learn and read and make decisions, it was all tenuous, but he was determined to savor every moment. He never imagined he’d get the chance to experience the freedom of being able to go out on his own again, unmonitored. He sat in the old lawn chair left out by one of the inhabitants of the apartment building and listened to life going on around him, immersing himself in the beauty of it. Two floors down a family was watching a movie together, a comedy about kids playing hockey, they were laughing. Just below him, a father was reading his child a book before bedtime. It made him think about his dad, who hadn’t been much of a fan of books, but had read to him every night until Matt was old enough to read on his own.  

_But elsewhere, someone was crying._

There was always someone crying somewhere. In the dorm, students got homesick or lovesick, wrestled with grief over family members or friends who were ill or had passed away. Human misery was everywhere, and Matt often sat up at night unable to sleep from the weight of it all.  This sound was different. It came from an alley a block away; the noise resonating off the brick buildings, echoing. It was choked and painful, the person it was coming from was trying to hold back sobs without success. Mixed in with the crying was a broken moan of pain, a sound he recognized instantly.

There was no plan, no deliberate intent. He got up and made his way along the rooftops, crossed the alley and climbed again up to the roof to find a vantage point. He smelled cigars, newsprint and bleach from the building below, and blood and salt mixed with the garbage of the alley. The person was alone, his heart beating fast, frightened, young, but not much younger than Matt was himself. The boy was sitting on the cement; something was clicking? Metal. A Centre bracelet on the boy’s wrist, and a collar around his neck. And. There were chain links, scraping against metal. Matt crept closer to the edge of the building. A chain around the boy’s ankle was attached to a metal pipe coming out of the wall. There was blood on his face.

Inside the building, the ground floor consisted of a couple of retail stores, a tobacco and newspaper shop and a hair stylist, and above that were apartments. Matt heard several televisions playing sitcoms and dramas. Those weren’t what he was looking for. There. Someone pacing, breathing heavy, angry. A man. Alone. Matt climbed down silently toward the window of that apartment. The man paced some more and then swore to himself and stomped out the door, down the hall, down the stairs to the back door where the boy was chained.

The man stepped outside and slammed the door shut behind him; the boy flinched and tried to crawl away, but there was nowhere to go with the chain around his ankle. The man kicked him in the thigh and the boy cried out.

“Shut up, you fucking loser,” he yelled and kicked again, this time hitting the boy on the side.  “You’re supposed to be helping me, not making my life more difficult. How do you fucking misplace an entire order?  You had one job, and you couldn’t even do that. I might as well have gotten a dog for all the good you are. A fucking waste of money,” he swung his arm back, ready to punch the boy in the face…

It wasn’t a conscious decision. Matt was already down in the alley. He caught the man’s arm, twisting it back and spinning him around. He hooked his leg around the man’s ankles and slammed him to the ground, holding him in place with a knee to his back. “Leave the boy alone.”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m the person stopping you,” Matt answered in a low voice. There was the strong scent of tobacco on the man’s clothing. Matt pulled back on the man’s arm, stressing the joint and earning a grunt of pain. “Whatever the boy did, he doesn’t deserve to be beaten.”

“He’s just a fucking ward, what the fuck do you care?”

“He’s a person, and you’re going to treat him like one,” Matt insisted. “Do you understand?”

“Fuck you.”

Matt wrenched the man's arm back in a sudden movement, hearing a pop as the man beneath him bucked and screamed. “Do you understand?”

“Yes. Yes, I get it,” the man gasped.

“This is between you and me and has nothing to do with the boy.”

“Okay, fine, okay.”

“I will know. If anything happens to him, I will know. Even when you think you are alone, I’ll be watching.” Matt ground his knee into the man’s lower back to get his point across. “From here on, you’ll treat him with kindness and respect.” 

“Yes. I promise. Let me go, please.”

Matt eased the pressure on the man’s arm and swiftly hid in between the buildings where he couldn’t hear the buzz of street lights. He deftly climbed back up the wall to the roof and waited, listening. The man slowly sat up, grunting with pain and effort, holding his arm close to protect his dislocated shoulder. He unlocked the chain around the boy’s ankle and said nothing as he opened the door and brought him inside. Neither of them said anything. They walked upstairs; the boy went into a small room and lied down on a mat on the floor, and the man called a taxi to take him to the hospital. 

The cab arrived, the man left, and the boy fell asleep. 

The occupants of the other apartments eventually turned off their TV’s, they took showers, got ready for bed, started to snore. Matt sat above them all, listening, shivering as he came down from the adrenalin rush. Despite the shivering, he felt energized. Powerful. He reached into his pocket and ran his fingers over the smooth surface of his phone.

“Phone Foggy,” he said. The phone made a familiar click as it processed the instruction.

_“Matt? You okay?”_

There was no reason for Foggy to jump immediately into panic mode and it almost made Matt laugh out loud. “I’m fine. I went a little further than usual tonight,” he lied. “It might be kind of late before I get home. Just wanted to let you know, so you don’t wait up for me.” 

_“You sure you’re okay? You sound kind of weird.”_

“I went for a run.”

_“How’s your back doing?”_

“It’s good.” Matt stretched out some of the tension in his lower back. It was better than it had been since the surgery to remove the implant, and in fact, it was even better than it was before the implant had been removed.

_“Don’t be too late; we have an early class tomorrow.”_

Matt leaned against the wall. “I’m already on my way back,” he assured Foggy.

_“Hey, Matt?”_

“Mm?”

_“Have fun.”_

“I am. Thanks, buddy. Get some rest; I’ll be home soon.” Matt disconnected the call and smiled.

 

…

 

Despite feeling tired from getting back so late, the next day Matt felt more alert and confident than he had for years. The weather was starting to warm up as winter loosened its hold. That feeling of impending doom Matt carried around with him everywhere felt lighter. Even Foggy commented on his good mood.

They went for a walk together after class. There was no destination in mind, and so Matt subtly steered them along roughly the same path he’d taken the night before but staying to the streets and sidewalks rather than the back lanes and rooftops.

Matt slowed down as the scent of tobacco grew stronger. “Weren’t you looking for a magazine the other day? What was it? Fortean Times, right?” Matt asked as they neared the tobacco and news store.

“Oh right.” Foggy stepped to the side a bit, reading the logo on the shop window. “Do you want to wait out here while I go in? My nose is already burning; I can’t even imagine how strong it must be for you.”

Matt shrugged. “I’ll be okay. If it gets overwhelming, I’ll go outside.”

They both entered. Matt wrinkled his nose and cleared his throat on reflex as the tobacco smell hit him full force. He heard a bicycle enter the alley behind the store, it stopped, the back door opened, and a boy walked inside. He wore a satchel over his shoulder and picked a box up off the counter as the man read out an address. The boy was walking comfortably, and he didn’t seem to be in any pain or distress.

Foggy tapped Matt’s arm and leaned closer. “The guy behind the counter has a broken arm.”

“Dislocated,” the man corrected him. Just happened last night.” He grunted as he stacked a pile of magazines on the corner. “Some asshole mugged me in the alley last night. This fucking city, everything is going to shit, I tell you. You can’t even go out your back door without getting attacked.”

“That sucks,” Foggy agreed. He asked about the magazine he was looking for.

“We don’t carry it on the shelf, but I can see if it’s something I can order in?”

“Thanks.”

The man typed slowly into the computer, finger tapping the letters one handed. “You want me to order it?”

“That’d be excellent.” An order sheet was placed on the counter, and pen scratched against paper asFoggy filled in his information.

“It’ll be a few weeks. I’ll send you an email when the magazine arrives,” the man said and started slowly tapping Foggy’s information into his computer.

Foggy gently nudged Matt and Matt tucked his hand around Foggy's elbow as Foggy led him around the store. “My parent’s neighbor loves all this cigar stuff. We should pick some up for her next time we visit.”

Matt nodded along as Foggy talked about his neighbor and her son, but he wasn’t paying attention. He listened to the boy pick up his bike and adjust the bag around his shoulders before peddling away to make his next delivery. Matt smiled. The boy he saved last night was okay. 

He decided to come back around that night and make sure things stayed okay for the boy. If along the way he followed a few extra streets, it was just for the exercise. If he came across something happening, he couldn’t be blamed for interfering, right?

Someone had to do something.

 


	43. Surprises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For skeptic7 who suggested Matt needs to be safe and happy and if Matt needs to be busy, Foggy can have him volunteer at a library, and let all the little kids read to him.

"Hurry up," Foggy grabbed Matt’s arm and pulled him forward.

"Foggy wait," Matt skipped a step and almost tripped trying to catch up. “I thought we were going to a library.”

“We are.” Foggy bit back his impatience and waited for Matt to place his hand on his elbow.  "Sorry, I don't want to be late."

"Late for what?" Matt asked for the umpteenth time. 

"It's a surprise, can you please just go with it?" Foggy answered, again. 

"You said it was a library." 

"It's a surprise in a library," Foggy explained. 

"Usually, there are just books," Matt joked, and Foggy groaned. They'd been at it all morning with Matt trying to pry the afternoon's plans out of him. But, he wasn't going to break! Nope. 

"We're here," Foggy announced as they came up to an old stone building. 

“This is a church,” Matt said, confused.

“It _was_ a church,” Foggy explained. “It is now New Haven Elementary School.”

“It still smells like a church. Why are we here?” Matt asked. 

"What does a church smell like?"

"Candles and pine sol." 

They stopped at the office, and the secretary greeted them. “You’re here for the afternoon outreach?” She passed a piece of paper over the desk and Foggy signed and passed it back. The secretary handed them plastic tags with strings. Foggy pulled one over his head and gave the other to Matt.

“What is this?”

“It’s a visitors pass.”

Matt sighed and pulled it over his head. Foggy watched him fidgeting with the string around his neck and turned back to the secretary. 

“Do you have a clip instead?” Foggy asked. She passed him another tag with a metal clasp on it. Matt took the string off from around his neck and clipped the card to the front of his shirt.

“Is this okay?” Matt asked.

“Yeah, that’s fine.” Foggy patted Matt on the arm.

“The library is down the hall to the left.” The secretary informed them.

When they were back in the corridor, Matt squeezed Foggy’s arm. “You still haven’t told me what we are doing here?”

“I got you a job.”

“What?” Matt stopped walking, and no amount of tugging on his arm could drag him forward. “Foggy?”

“Not a sublet. Nothing bad, I promise. It's volunteer, for both of us. Remember the redhead in our history of science class?”

“How would I know?" He knew because Foggy had described her hair to him nearly every time they were in class. "Darla?”

“She works here a couple of mornings a week. She arranged it.”

“Volunteering implies someone has willingly agreed to do something, which I have not.”

Foggy tugged again, and again Matt would not move. “It’s a surprise. I promise. It’s good. Please?”

This time, when Foggy pulled on his arm, Matt stepped with him.

They entered the library, and the room erupted in clapping.  Foggy watched Matt get his bearings. There were eight kids all under ten years old sitting in a circle on bright little pillows.  

Matt folded up his cane and held it at his side. 

“Say hello to Mr. Murdock and Mr. Nelson.” The teacher introduced them. 

“Hello, Mr. Murdock and Mr. Nelson.” The kids all said at once at various speeds.

Matt nudged Foggy, but Foggy brushed him off. “Yeah, it's okay. They know, it's not an issue," he said referring to Matt's ward status. "Are you all right with them using your last name?"

"It's good, yes," Matt whispered back.

“Children, Mr. Murdock and his friend Mr. Nelson have graciously volunteered to join us today to teach us how to interact with the visually impaired.”

The tension in Matt's shoulders only eased after they settled on the floor with the kids. 

The teacher gave a brief explanation to the students about the importance of being inclusive of people who have different abilities.

Matt cleared his throat, set his expression, and smiled. "Has anyone here ever met a blind person before?" he asked them.  

A boy held up his hand and Foggy loudly whispered a reminder to him, "He can't see you." 

The boy lowered his hand. "My poodle is blind," he offered.

"Okay, any people?"

There was silence.

"No takers, buddy. It's a tough crowd and some of them kind of look petrified," Foggy whispered to him.

“Would you like to start with questions?” Matt asked the kids instead.

They had a lot of questions: how long have you been blind, can you see anything, can you see in your dreams, how do you know if you’re asleep, what do your eyes look like, how do you find stuff, is it hard to use a fork. Matt answered the ones he was comfortable with and avoided the questions he wasn’t.

Then they switched to Foggy reading a very short picture book, demonstrating to the kids how to describe the pictures, and then it was their turn. Everyone got a chance to read a couple of pages of a book and describe a scene.

Then it came time for Matt to read something, the teacher passed him a kids book in Braille and he held it up for everyone to see. “When I lost my vision, I had to learn a new way to read, and because I can't see the words, I have to feel them instead. I read with my fingers,” he explained. 

Foggy made moved aside as the kids came forward and lightly stroked their fingers over the bumps. When they settled back down Matt read them the story. Three of the kids ended up pressed up against his legs. 

Foggy ended up with a few of them cuddled up against him as well as the rest gathered in as close as they could.

After the story, Foggy told the kids to scatter some chairs to make an obstacle course, and he demonstrated how to lead. Matt opened up his cane and put his hand on Foggy’s elbow. 

They did a turn of how not to lead someone while Foggy led Matt directly into everything he could find while Matt tried hard not to laugh. Then they did a serious demonstration and Foggy led him correctly. 

“Anyone else want a turn?” Matt asked. Of course, all the kids wanted to. They made a short circuit of the room, around the chairs and tables and back to the front, and all of them were very proud of not having walked him into any obstacles.

Two hours passed like it was nothing, and at the end of the afternoon, a couple of the kids cried when it was time to say goodbye.

They were already outside when Matt gave Foggy a light shove to the arm. “You should have told me what we were going to be doing.”

“You had fun.” Foggy laughed. “Admit it.”

“I had fun,” Matt admitted. “But why didn’t you tell me where we were going?”

“You haven’t exactly had a lot of good surprises going on lately, and I thought maybe I could try and balance out the scales. Anyway, I know how much you like kids, and I kind of love the look you get on your face when you’re happy."

“Thanks.” Matt wrapped his arm around Foggy’s in a half hug and they stopped for a latte on the way home.


	44. Falling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to teejay and draganies for helping beta and work out ideas!

_(the mugging)_

Matt's nightly prowls became a routine. He always started off towards Riverside Park. It took an hour to walk to Hell’s Kitchen; or less than half that if he wanted to run. He loved Hell’s Kitchen, it was his home. Would Foggy want to stay in New York after finishing school? He tried not to think about it; that was Foggy’s decision to make.

One of Matt’s regular stops was Foggy’s parents’ house. He paused near it to listen to what was going on. Candace was doing her homework upstairs in her room while listening to music on her headphones. Mr. and Mrs. Nelson were playing cards at the kitchen table and bickering over whether it was necessary to buy crunchy peanut butter just because they had a coupon for it.

He continued along the route he’d developed over the past few weeks, passing by the places he cared about the most. Various scents guided his way—bitter, pungent, sweet—smells of dinners being cooked or cleaned up, wafting out of open windows. He made his way up the side of a building, the edge of a dumpster, a window sill, a fire escape, and up to the roof. Dogs barked as he passed. Matt kept to the dark places, away from the buzz of street lights. Two blocks, and he was at St Agnes. He listened to the kids, naming them in his head as he heard their voices. And Sister Catherine. She was helping Garrett read a short chapter book. He stopped there longer than he intended.

What had happened to his friends? The other kids his age? Were they married with jobs? Had any of them ended up like him? He could google their names. Or not. Foggy would do it for him if he asked.

More distant, he heard the beeping of the crosswalk’s audio signal for the seeing-impaired. Matt thought about how, when the sound indicators had first been installed, the shrill blast of noise had made it difficult for him to focus on the traffic. He was used to them now.

And then there was a sound of metal on metal, a startled yelp. He shifted focus a few blocks away. Voices demanding money. Two of them. A third answered—scared. “ _Please don’t hurt me._ ”

It didn’t take long to cover the distance. He jumped down into the alley below from a low fire escape. The victim, a heavyset man with raspy breath, smoker’s lungs, pleading, “ _Don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me_.”

One of the attackers held a knife; Matt lunged into action. With a swift and effective movement, Matt delivered a powerful strike to the side of man’s neck from behind; the mugger stumbled, grunting with shock and pain.

 Almost immediately, the victim ran, panting, heart racing, yelling for help.

It was embarrassingly easy to fight the would-be muggers. They weren’t fighters; their only power lay in intimidation, and Matt wasn’t impressed. The one on the left smelled like garlic, and the one on the right, the one holding the knife whom Matt had already hit, smelled of vodka. They came forward at once, but Matt backed out of the way and to the side.

He grabbed the man’s knife arm, swiped his feet out from under him, holding on as he fell, listening to the ligaments in his elbow strain and pop as he fell and twisted against the resistance. Matt let him drop and kicked back as the other one lunged, his heel connecting with the mugger’s side, he felt the bone give as ribs cracked. That one dropped, too.

It was easy. Almost too easy.

Matt grabbed the knife and dropped it down the nearest manhole and continued on his way.

 

_(the stalker)_

 

Foggy was playing another video game, this time on his phone, featuring yet another obnoxious soundtrack. This one had added barking sound effects. Raiders Run—Foggy said it was about an archeologist running from wolves, and he had to duck and jump over obstacles. It had been entertaining at first, the way Foggy ducked and twisted with the character he was playing. Three days later, it was much less amusing.

“What happened to Popsicle Smash?” Matt asked. At least that game came with a lot less grunting.

“This one’s more fun. I have to escape the wolves, Matt. _Wolves,_ ” Foggy laughed.

Matt didn’t laugh with him. “You need to work on your essay.”

“Worry about your own essay.”

He would. But Foggy was distracting him. The music was distracting him. Everything was distracting him. His nerves felt raw, almost like they were humming, and he couldn’t sit still, couldn’t concentrate, and he needed—

“Get out.”

Matt stopped pacing and faced Foggy. “What?”

“Why are you still here? Go for a run.” Foggy paused the game.

“It’s not dark enough yet.”

“How would you know? It’s plenty dark, Matt.”

“What about the essay?”

“I’m not saying stay out late, just go for a run.”

“If I do, will you turn off your game and work on your essay, too?”

“Yes. Go.”

So, Matt went.

He didn’t go far, just across Riverside Drive and into the park. There was nowhere he could go where it would be quiet, but this was close enough. Foggy was right; he would feel better after going for a run.

_Bastard, fucking liar._

Matt slowed down. A woman was walking in front of him, muttering under her breath. There were other footsteps in front of her.

Matt slowed to a walk. The woman was walking at the same pace as another person in front of her. That was strange. People rarely walked at exactly the same pace.

The leading footsteps were heavier, flat shoes, aftershave. A man. The woman had a lighter step, double tapping high heels; she was following the man, Matt was sure of it. Her heart rate was quick, her breathing fast.

The man turned the corner to the street, and moments later she turned, too. As she stepped, something heavy clunked in the pocket of her coat. Metal. The smell of gun oil and gun powder. A fingernail scratching against a rough surface.

Matt adjusted his hood, making sure to pull it low, keeping his head down. He kept his pace matched with the woman’s, the same distance that she was keeping behind the man she was following.

All of a sudden, the man’s cell phone rang—Matt heard a woman on the other end, asking him to pick up a gallon of milk on his way home. He said he would. The man turned and cut through an alley, and the armed woman followed, her step getting faster, her heart pounding. Her hand was sweating as she gripped the handle of the gun in her pocket, and Matt ran to catch up.

She must have heard him, because she pulled the gun out of her pocket as he approached and spun to face him as the man she’d been following exited the alley and continued on, oblivious to the confrontation taking place behind him.

His hand came up and went right for her wrist, twisting it backward. A tendon snapped, she gasped, and the weapon fell out of her hand, landing on the ground with a clatter. It didn’t fire. She was fast, bringing up her knee and hitting him in the ribs before he could adjust his hold and keep her still.

“Get the fuck off me!” she snarled.

“You would have shot him.”

She ducked and twisted, her left arm coming up and grabbing him at the back of his neck, her fingers squeezing and fingernails digging in. He was thoroughly unprepared for the sudden paralysis that gripped his system as his nerves reacted—a carryover from the damn collar.

The moment of frozen hesitation was enough for her to swing him forward into the wall of the adjacent building, scraping his face against the brick right before her elbow caught him in the eye. As soon as his neck was free, he kicked her ankle out and dragged her down to the ground, pinning her there with his knee on her back.

_Shit. What now?_

The gun was within reach, and he leaned over and picked it up, tucking the revolver in his sweater pocket. Had he heard a click as she held it? Was the safety on or off? He’d never touched a gun before, but he was vaguely familiar with their basic function. It was loaded, that was all he knew.

The only thing he could think of was that he could take her weapon with him. That, at least, would keep her from shooting anyone tonight, but what about tomorrow or the day after? What else could he do, because he couldn’t exactly call the police. What would he say?

Matt tucked his arm close to his body cradling the weight of the weapon in his pocket to keep it steady; the last thing he needed was to shoot himself or someone else accidently. He couldn’t keep her pinned to the ground much longer; someone would come, see what he was doing.

“Stay down, move and I’ll shoot you,” he whispered into her ear, and then released her and ran.

She stayed down for a whole ten seconds before getting up and cursing at him, more angry than scared.

The river was only a block away. Standing near the edge of the water, he threw the gun as far as he could and listened to the resulting splash as it hit the water.

Then he took stock. The side of his face felt warm and wet, the smell of blood strong, and the area around his eye was tender and puffy.

What was he even doing out here? He hadn’t planned on finding trouble. He should be back at the dorm with Foggy, working on his essay.

_What was he going to tell Foggy?_

He wasn’t late arriving back home; Foggy was still playing the game on his phone. Matt considered the possibility of waiting outside until Foggy fell asleep. Trouble was, he still needed to work on his essay.

His hand shook as he put the key in the lock. Foggy looked up as he entered, his heart speeding up at the sight of Matt’s face, and he turned off his phone, not even saving his game. He always saved his game.

Matt stepped backward nervously as Foggy stood up and took a few steps towards him. He gripped the edge of his desk behind him as Foggy pushed back his hood to get a better look. He still didn’t know what he was going to say, how to explain so that Foggy would understand.

“Jesus Matt. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Matt shook his head, trying not to let his anxiety show; he had no idea how Foggy would react to what he’d done.

Foggy left and brought back some cotton wipes and antiseptic from the bathroom, picking up the cold pack from their mini-fridge along the way.

“What happened?” he asked, dabbing at the scrape and cleaning off the blood before pressing the cold pack to Matt’s eye.

He didn’t want to lie. _Wards_ lied to their supervisors and leaseholders all the time to avoid trouble; that wasn’t who they were, it wasn’t the kind of relationship Matt wanted to have with Foggy. They were friends. Friends didn’t lie to each other, they trusted each other.  

He’d already lied before, though, hadn’t he? He’d lied the night he found the ward chained to the wall. He lied every time he told Foggy he was going out for a run and found trouble instead.

“I fell,” Matt said, and it hurt inside because he knew he was breaking something treasured, something he wasn’t sure he would be able to repair.

“You fell?”

Matt nodded. He could hear Foggy’s heart beating and he knew Foggy didn’t believe him.

But Foggy said nothing.

 

_(the young woman in the car)_

 

People talk to themselves. A lot. It was something Matt got used to as a kid; being able to hear the private conversations taking place in closed rooms that no one else should be able to hear.

Matt mused about this as he stood on the roof of an apartment building just outside of the campus area, wondering why some people talked to their pets, held entire conversations, even answering themselves back in made up voices. Sometimes it was funny; often it was sad.

He’d learned to tune them out as much as possible.

Foggy often talked to himself, even though he knew that Matt could hear him. Or maybe it was _because_ he knew Matt could hear him. Matt had yet to figure that out.

Matt wished sometimes that he could just turn off his hearing, but he couldn’t do it any more than normal people could. Random words and phrases would slip into his conscious focus whether he wanted them to or not.

_“He won’t find me here.”_

Matt paused.

 _“I’ll be fine. It will be fine,”_ a young woman whispered, her voice muffled by the closed windows and metal of a vehicle.

Matt jumped down onto the ledge of a fire escape. The woman sat in her car, parked on the side of the street—alone, crying. She shifted, and the vehicle creaked with the movement, an older model, rust on the rims and a leaking radiator.

Cloth, a zipper, items shuffling as she rummaged through a bag. Her purse? Tapping. A phone? Yes. A brief conversation with a man followed. His voice sounded distracted, impatient. The young woman asked if she could come over, he had friends over, it wasn’t a good time. Maybe another day? _That’s fine_ , she said.

It wasn’t fine; she was crying, she was alone, and she was scared.

More calls. Her tone changed when she spoke on the phone, false cheer in her voice, _let’s go out for coffee._ Why didn’t she tell them she was alone and scared- her friends would help her if they knew how much she needed them wouldn’t they?

Matt crouched down on the fire escape landing, took his phone out of his pocket and called Foggy. It wasn’t late yet. When he left the dorm, Foggy had been playing a computer game. The same one he’d been playing for two weeks straight. Matt was considering staging an intervention—if not for Foggy, then for his own sanity. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could listen to the incessantly repetitive video game soundtrack and not lose his mind.

Foggy answered the phone right away.

“I’m fine,” Matt said as soon as he heard the click of the line connect. “I have a question for you.”

 _“Okay, hold on a sec, let me pause this.”_ The game music stopped. _“What’s up?”_

Matt told him about the young woman in the car.

_“Do you want me to call the police? They could check on her and see if she needs any help.”_

“What if they take her to a Centre-care shelter?”

_“You said she’s scared someone is after her?”_

“Her ex-boyfriend. He’s been following her.”

_”I know it sucks, but it’s not your problem. What do you expect to do?”_

“But, Foggy—”

_“Matt, don’t get involved. You know nothing about her.”_

“Right,” Matt answered. He knew she was scared and alone, wasn’t that enough?

_“I’m sure she’ll be fine. Matt, stay out of it. Don’t do anything stupid. Hey, do you hear me?”_

“I hear everything, Foggy. That’s the problem.”

Matt ended the call, jumped off the fire escape and brushed the dust and dirt off himself.

_Foggy told him not to get involved._

If he approached her, what then? He was a stranger and she was already scared. She couldn’t even tell her friends she needed help, what was the chance she’d talk to him? Even if she wanted his help, what could he do? Maybe Foggy was right. He could watch over her and make sure no one else hurt her; she didn’t have to know he was there. He pulled the hood back over his head, retreated into the alley and jumped to grab the bottom of the fire escape to pull himself up.

The phone in his pocket buzzed as he settled back into a crouch.

Foggy _._ _“I’m sorry.”_

“No, you were right. I’m just going to stay and watch.”

_“Be careful, okay? If anything does happen, call the police and get out of there. You know what will happen if you get caught.”_

“I know,” Matt said. “I won't get caught.”

And since Matt wasn’t doing anything more than just sitting and watching, he asked Foggy how his video game was going. _Popsicle Smash._ Matt didn’t understand why Foggy cared so much about reaching level ten. “Does the game ever end?”

“ _No_.”

That was unfortunate. “Is there a reward?”

_“It adds fudgesicles, and you get to go to level eleven.”_

“Oh. Sounds thrilling.”

_“Are you coming back soon?”_

“Yeah,” Matt agreed.

Foggy yawned, Matt told him to go to bed, and Foggy finished by telling him not to be too late. _Same old same old._ Matt tucked his phone back into his pocket and huddled on the fire escape, rubbing his hands together to keep his fingers warm.

It didn’t take very long before the young woman called another person. An older woman.

_“Can I come over, I have nowhere else to go.”_

She was finally asking for help.

The older voice on the phone answered, _Any time you need_. Then the engine of the car started, making a mechanically tortured screeching sound as it did, and she drove away. Matt breathed a silent sigh of relief.

 

_(the tobacco and magazine shop)_

 

A week passed since the gun incident, and Matt stayed in the dorm in the evenings, catching up on homework and studying. There were no news stories about a man getting shot, but New York was a big city, not every crime made it to the news.

One thing was clear, however. He had no idea what he was doing. He couldn’t even report anything to the police. He could intervene, but he couldn’t stop anyone from going right back to continuing what they had been doing all over again.

He couldn’t change anything. To change the system, he had to work _within_ the system, not just beat random people up on the street.

Before he went out that night, Matt told Foggy he’d be careful. He meant it.

“No more falling?” Foggy asked, his tone implying so much more than what was said.

“No more falling,” Matt promised.

The smell of tobacco was apparent from over a block away. Matt stopped on the roof, listening, checking on the boy he’d saved in the alley weeks ago—a fellow ward he’d gotten into the habit of keeping tabs on.

So far, there’d been no more issues. But, this time, there was only one presence in the apartment below, just the owner. That couldn’t be right; he climbed down the fire escape to get closer to the window. One heartbeat. There was no boy. The room he’d been in before was empty and silent. Matt ran his fingers along the window frame, gripping the bottom and pulling up. How long had the boy been gone?

The man was in the kitchen, sitting at the table, eating a salami sandwich. He didn’t hear Matt enter.

The only light with active power was in the kitchen where the man was eating. Matt followed the electrical flow through the wall. He found the switch and flicked it off, then he slammed the man's head down onto the table, pressing down on the back of his neck with his forearm.

“Where’s the boy?”

“Fuck,” the man grunted and coughed on the sandwich still in his mouth.

Matt grabbed the arm of the shoulder he’d dislocated back in the alley weeks ago, and pulled it back. Enough pressure to hurt, not enough to injure. “The ward. Where is he?”

“I fucking sold him, okay? The auction site, it’s the easiest way to get rid of a lease. I don’t want this shit, it ain’t worth it.”

“Who did you sell him to?”

“What does that matter?” He coughed again. “I did what you said. I didn’t hurt him. He’s gone. What more do you want?”

Matt breathed through his nose and wrenched the arm back. There was a sickening crack as the bone split. The man screamed and passed out.

Matt froze. That wasn’t— He hadn’t meant to… had he?

Shit. _What had he done?_ Matt let go, and the man fell to the floor. This wasn’t— it wasn’t what he’d come here for. He needed to get out.

He went for the window, stumbled on the window ledge as he pulled the window frame shut behind him. The urge to put distance between himself and what he did caused him to fumble on the fire escape, turning his ankle as he landed. He didn’t even pay attention to what direction he was going in. He ran and ran. He’d been trying to help the kid, but he’d only made things worse. _What if…_

Fuck.

Thinking of his own experience after having had his lease sold on the auction site made his stomach ache.

_What if…_

He was out of breath and stopped, chest heaving, lungs burning. He crouched on the ground in the alley, shaking. This was all wrong. Everything he did made it so much worse.

The only thing to do now was to go home to Foggy. But he couldn’t. He’d just broken a man’s arm, and it hadn’t been in self-defense. What time was it now? How long had he stayed hiding in the dark, unable to make a move?

His cell phone buzzed in his pocket, and he picked it up. It was Foggy. It was only ever Foggy, seeing how he was the only one with his phone number.

_“Do you remember what Professor Martin said about what pages we needed to have read for next class?”_

Professor Martin was their literature prof. “I don’t know, Foggy.”

_“Matt, are you okay?”_

“No,” he said, his voice shaking. “I’m not.”

_“What happened? Are you hurt? Are you safe?”_

“I’m sorry.”

 _“Matt, are you hurt?”_ Foggy’s voice was more insistent.

“I’m not hurt.”

_“Are you safe?”_

“Foggy,” he started and stopped. What could he say? He’d just broken a man’s arm because he lost his temper. That _wasn’t_ safe.

_“Are you on your way home?”_

Matt heard steps on the sidewalk, he got up and moved deeper into the shadows, and the footsteps passed. “Yes, I’m coming home.”

Matt hung up and turned off the phone. He heard the distant sound of a police siren as it came near and stopped several streets away, and he couldn’t help but wonder if one day they would come for him to take him away because he’d done a monumentally stupid thing like tonight. It wasn’t a comforting thought at all.


	45. Confession

_Foggy, I’ve been lying to you._

_I broke a man’s arm because I was angry._

 

Matt stopped walking, head down and mind racing, overwhelmed with the cacophony of radio stations blaring within the vehicles passing by, each coming into focus for only a second before racing past. TV sets. Phones. Voices, talking, arguing, whispering. Noise everywhere. Under that, the deeper hum of electricity flowing through the buildings and underground. Buzzing streetlights. Traffic signals. Subway trains. The city pulsed and drummed with sound.

And through it all, echoing in his mind, was the memory of bone cracking under pressure.

He wanted it to stop. All of it. Just stop. But he could no more stop _hearing_ than he could stop breathing. And as the world started spinning and the amount of air he sucked into his lungs just wasn’t _enough_ , two voices in the adjacent apartment building caught his attention.

Laughter, giggling, whispering. Young, so young that their voices were both high and impossible to distinguish whether they were male or female. Siblings sharing a room, they were talking about what Matt assumed were video games, listing which characters were their favorites, who would win over the other in different levels. Matt stayed exactly where he was, afraid to lose the echoes he was picking up on. Eventually the voices grew tired, the spaces between questions and replies became longer until they silenced all together, replaced with the steady breathing of sleep.

When was the last time he and Foggy had stayed up late like that, like brothers, whispering jokes and secrets to each other? Not since Matt had started going out at night.

He’d let the freedom of being allowed to go outside unsupervised get to his head, but it was all just a charade; the intoxicating sensation of feeling empowered and unafraid was an illusion. Just because the paralyzing feeling of helplessness that gripped him in the day dissipated with the cover of darkness and anonymity, the facts weren’t any different. He was a ward dependent, a slave to the system that owned his lease.   

If the trade-off of feeling free was at the cost of his friendship with Foggy, the cost was too high.

Foggy was real. School was real.

With that realization came another one. He suddenly knew what he needed to do. He needed to confess.

Growing up in a Catholic orphanage he understood the right of confession as taught to him by the Sisters and the Priest. Lies created division. Confession healed; it healed rebellion, brought reconciliation, and prescribed penance. Those were all things Matt needed.

But there was no priest to confess to this time; there was only Foggy. Foggy was his supervisor and lease holder. Right now, it was Foggy’s forgiveness he needed.

_But, what would Foggy do?_

Matt’s imagination provided two scenarios:

_1) Matt told Foggy everything and stood waiting, nervous, and Foggy stepped forward wrapping his arms around him in a comforting hug._

_2) Matt told Foggy everything and stood waiting, nervous, and Foggy pulled the dust covered box of corrective tools out from under his bed and opened it. ‘I was wrong,’ Foggy said, ‘you need to be taught how to obey.’_

The pace of Matt’s step grew slower the closer he got to the dorm. As a scenario, both possibilities existed only within the realm of his imagination only so long as he was not back home yet. He was a block away when he sensed Foggy sitting outside on the steps of their dorm building. Matt could pinpoint the familiar heartbeat and breathing pattern anywhere.

Matt came closer to the electric hum of the street lamp overhead and stood in what he assumed to be its light. He knew the moment Foggy saw him. Matt stopped, trying to bring order to the chaos in his head. He couldn’t hide this anymore. His own heart raced so fast that it drowned out everything else around him. Everything except Foggy. 

A single thought swirled in his head; everything he did at night betrayed Foggy’s trust in him.  

Time seemed to slow as Foggy stood and walked forward, and then gripped him just above the elbow like a vice. Not a word was said.

Foggy’s arms were suddenly tight around him, holding on. “Holy shit, I thought I lost you. I thought the cops were going to come and tell me you’d been arrested.”

There was relief, but anger too. Matt stumbled as Foggy wrapped his fingers around his wrist, tugging him into the building, up the stairs and the privacy of their room.

“Why didn’t you answer your phone?”

Matt stood where Foggy released him. “I need to talk to you.”

“Well, if you had answered your phone, we could have. What the hell, Matt? You said you weren’t okay and then you hung up on me. Are you hurt?”

“I’m not hurt. Foggy, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry about what? Are you okay or aren’t you?”

“I’ve been lying to you.”

“No kidding, Matt. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

And that— “Foggy…”

Matt felt the world go out of focus around him, and then, an arm around his shoulders, guiding him to the bed to sit down. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees and head down, feeling nauseous. The bed beside him dipped as Foggy sat with him.

Matt spoke softly, the words feeling grossly inadequate. “I shouldn’t have lied to you. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have started, but I didn’t know how to tell you, I didn’t know what to say,” Matt shuddered. “How much do you know?”

“I know the difference between the kind of bruises you get from falling off skate park ramps versus the kind caused by fists.”

Matt nodded.

“I know it isn’t something ridiculous like an underground fight club, and I know you aren’t going somewhere to train because I turned on the GPS tracker on your phone two weeks ago.”

“GPS tracker?” Matt asked.

“A teen-tracker app in parental controls.”

“Is that why you bought me a phone?”

“You were lying to me and coming home injured; I was worried.”

“Why didn’t you ask?” He had no right to be hurt about Foggy tracking his movements. Foggy was his supervisor, and Matt had been lying to him.

“I was waiting for you to tell me yourself. How many times have you lied to me?”

Matt told him. He told him everything. He told him about the first time he intervened to stop the owner of the Tobacco and Magazine Shop from beating his ward, told him about the mugging he stopped, the woman with the gun, all of it.

“Where were you tonight?”

“The Tobacco and Magazine shop. I go back to check on things, to keep my promise to watch over him. But, he wasn’t there, Foggy. The store owner sold the boy on the auction site. He sold him because of what I did. I made things worse.”

“You don’t know that.”

“His lease was sold on the _auction site,_ Foggy. The Market, at least, has regulations. The auction has no oversight.”

Foggy placed a hand on Matt’s shoulder. “And that’s how the people who hurt you at your last placement got a hold of your lease, isn’t it? They went through the auction site?”

Matt nodded. “I confronted the store owner.”

“And then what happened?”

Matt took a breath, thinking about his dad, about how his grandmother used to say be careful of the Murdock boys; they’ve got the devil in them. “There’s no excuse. I lost my temper and I broke his arm. It wasn’t self-defense. I broke his arm because I was angry. I enjoyed it,” Matt said and waited for Foggy to respond.  

Foggy said nothing. Instead, he wordlessly stood up and walked out the door.

_Foggy walked out._

Matt’s stomach clenched, Foggy was leaving… but, no. He hadn’t put on his shoes or his jacket; he hadn’t even shut the door. Matt listened to him walk down the hall to the shared kitchen and put coins into the coffee dispenser. The machine gurgled and spewed a thin trickle of what smelled like chocolate syrup and hot water, twice, and then Foggy walked back to their room and shut the door behind him.

His heart rate was still elevated, his breathing fast.

“Drink this.”

Matt obediently took the cup and drank, as though obeying now would make a difference. The heat burned his tongue and he accepted the pain as penance. He could taste the tangy metal of the machine it was made in, iron residue from the old water pipes, chemical powders that imitated the taste of chocolate. 

Foggy paced the small space of their dorm room. “Do you have any idea what they’ll do to you if they catch you?” 

Matt raised his head. “Yes.”

“Then why are you taking the risk, if you know what’s going to happen?”

“I’m not going to get caught.”

“You can’t promise that Matt,” Foggy snapped back.

“I’m going to stop.” Matt couldn’t suppress the shudder that ran through him as the memory yet again replayed in his mind. “Foggy, I’m dangerous. Maybe they were right to detain me, to make me dependent on the system. I can’t be trusted to be—”

“Matt, stop,” Foggy interrupted.

He did. When he’d first started remaking himself his intention was to be the person Foggy wanted him to be, the kind of person Foggy knew he _could_ be. 

How had he lost sight of that? The cold anger that spread through him when he’d been kneeling and degraded by the interrogator at the detention facility seared through his memory. They took him, assaulted him, dehumanized him, and for what? He’d tried following the rules and they punished him anyway.

“You aren’t a terrible person,” Foggy assured him. “If you enjoyed hurting that man, you wouldn’t be feeling so guilty.”

“I lied to you.” 

“But you aren’t lying anymore. The only way we can keep each other safe is if we’re honest.” Foggy gently eased the hot chocolate out of Matt’s hand. “You aren’t a terrible person,” he repeated.

“What do we do now?”

“Are you certain no one saw you?”

“Yes. I’m sure.”

“Okay then, I suggest we go to bed. It’s late and we’ve got an early class.”

Matt nodded. “I don’t know if I can sleep.”

“Then lie down with me,” Foggy suggested. “You’re safe, we’re okay, and the rest of it we’ll deal with tomorrow.”

 

________

 

Foggy woke up the next morning feeling completely unrested. How much sleep had he gotten last night? He sat up and rubbed at his eyes, Matt was already awake and ready for class, sitting at his desk, reading.

“Are you doing okay?”

Matt turned to face him, “Are _we_ okay?”

“Yeah,” Foggy said.

Matt nodded. “Then _I’m_ okay.”

They went on with their lives as though the night before never happened. Matt didn’t bring it up, and Foggy wasn’t about to ask. If they talked about it, then Foggy felt like he should have some kind of solution. How did you solve something like this? He hadn’t known Matt was roaming the streets, breaking people’s bones. But that wasn’t fair. Matt didn’t go out, intentionally looking for people to hurt. In all his stories, he only hurt others in the defense of someone else. It wasn’t intentional.

It wasn’t like Foggy didn’t already know Matt’s capacity for violence. He'd beaten up _Axe_  in the bathroom because he'd been threatening Lynn. He'd beaten up _Axe_  later on because he'd been threatening Foggy. 

Matt wasn’t violent. Not normally.  _He said he broke someone’s arm and he enjoyed it._

It would be a lie if Foggy said he was comfortable with the idea. The thought of Matt getting hurt or caught left him with a knot in the pit of his stomach. The thought of Matt hurting others—Foggy didn’t like that either.

_What if there was something wrong with him?_

To save someone from being mugged, that was an act of heroism. To save a boy from being chained to a pipe in an alley, to stop him from being beaten, it was what Foggy would like to think he would do himself if confronted with such a situation. But Matt… Matt was a ward. As a ward attacking a leaseholder, Matt would be painted as a dangerous criminal. The epidemic of ward violence, the media called it.

Ever since the Christmas day riots, there were daily news stories of wards turning on their supervisors. Harsher penalties were called for to stem the uprisings. Restrictions were needed.

If Matt were caught hurting a citizen, Foggy was afraid what they might do to him.

Foggy watched him carefully all day, nothing in his actions alluded to the emotional turmoil Matt had been in the night before. Not that Foggy expected Matt to spend the day sitting in the corner crying. Every time in the past that Matt fell apart from stress, it had been in the privacy and safety of their room.

But it didn’t happen. They arrived back at the dorm, and Matt seemed fine.

Foggy expected at least a little bit of anxiousness on Matt’s part that evening after dinner. The night before he'd been a wreck. Going out on his ‘runs’ after dark had become a nightly routine for weeks, there was no way Foggy believed Matt could break out of his pattern so easily.

And yet, it seemed like he did.

Matt asked Foggy to lend him his headphones, he found something to listen to on his phone, and sat down and studied. He went to bed still wearing them.

The same thing happened the next day.

And the day after that.

Matt did not go out. Even when Foggy encouraged him to go for a walk, even if it was just around the block, Matt refused. Even when Foggy offered to go with him, Matt wouldn’t leave the room. He sat with the headphones over his ears, sometimes studying, sometimes just lying in bed.

What was he listening to? He seemed to be able to hear Foggy just fine when he talked to him, and so it couldn’t be anything too distracting. 

And so, he asked, “Hey, Matt? What are you listening to?”

Matt took off the headphones and passed them over. Foggy put them on, and quickly pulled them off again. Holy shit.

White noise. So loud it made Foggy’s ears hurt.

“Matt? What is this?”

“Everything I hear, it’s too loud,” Matt told him and put the headphones back on. “I need to drown it out.”

Foggy leaned back in his desk chair.

This wasn’t working. There had to be something they could do.

 


	46. Spiral

“Are you coming with me to the Student Council Meeting?” Foggy asked.

Matt didn’t move from where he was lying in bed other than to turn his head to face him.

“Matt? I thought you said you wanted to go?”

Matt shook his head. He sounded defeated already. “You know they won’t let me in.”

“We’ll argue that they have to. Matt, the meeting directly concerns you, you have the right to be there.”

“I don’t, Foggy,” Matt answered quietly and then reached over and put on Foggy’s headphones, yet again, effectively shutting the world out.

A piece of paper stating that Matt was permitted to be a fully integrated student with all the rights and privileges therein was one thing, the reality of implementing it was far more difficult. Dealing with the people involved in allowing him to exercise those rights and privileges was complicated. Yes, Matt didn’t have to sit at the back of the class anymore, he had the freedom to ask questions and engage in classroom discussions. None of that meant his classmates were willing to work with him on group projects, or refrain from giving their opinions.

Foggy sat down on the edge of Matt’s bed. “We talked about this, remember? Geoff at student services, he said you should be there to put a human face to the discussion.”

Matt didn’t respond.

“Okay,” Foggy said and stood up. “You don’t have to go. If I were you, I wouldn’t want to be there either, but if you change your mind, you know where I’ll be.”

The meeting took place in the large lecture hall in the library; Foggy arrived early, and it was already half full when he got there. The panel of student advisors were seated at the front. The rest of the hall was filled by the time the meeting was set to begin, with only standing room available at the back.

The official topic was about policies regarding ward presence in student areas. What pissed Foggy off was that no one had any issues about wards working in those places before Matt had started attending the University, and it was suddenly an issue now that Matt had his student restrictions removed.

Students walked up to the front and delivered impassioned testimonials based on their personal experience.

The various stories came down to general themes:

_Wards are criminals and should not be rewarded for their crimes._

_My friend was assaulted by a ward._

_I feel uncomfortable being around them._

_I have always been afraid of wards, especially ones who are not regulated by correctional collars._

_The university used to feel safe; now I feel threatened._

It was all just bullshit, and none of it had anything to do with Matt. Matt was a state-dependant, and the portion of his service about his initial criminal sentence (escape attempt from the Centre and criminal endangerment against Centre agents) had been served out in his first year. If the judge hadn’t sentenced him as a Centre-care dependent, he would have been free three years ago.

Foggy’s stomach churned. None of it was fair. Everything that was said was based on the typical stereotypes of wards in media and Centre propaganda. At least none of it was personally directed towards him and Matt, and after a while Foggy started to tune it all out. It was all the same stuff he’d heard hundreds of times before. At least, it was all the same stuff up until another student walked up to the front and said, “There ought to be better guidelines as to the handling of wards by their supervisors on school property.”

The working wards were not seen in the company of supervisors while performing their duties around campus. Foggy and Matt were always together.

The discussion refocused on the proper treatment of wards; how they needed strict guidelines to follow to ensure their mental health and wellbeing, how to encourage proper obedience to the rules and avoid disciplinary action, how collars were a regulated, safe, and Centre approved method of control, how wards needed to be kept segregated from general civilian populations to keep them from becoming bitter and resentful about their restrictions.

Foggy was glad Matt had decided to stay home.

The counselor at Student Services had warned Foggy multiple times that, although it was in their best interest to attend the meeting to humanize the issue, if Foggy spoke, he risked starting an argument that would refocus everyone’s attention onto him and Matt. It sucked listening to all of it and not being able to say anything.

At least there was a handful of students who spoke up and talked about how wards were _not_ dangerous, and in fact were responsible for far less violent acts than the free population, that it wasn’t fair to judge all wards based on a few negative experiences.

Still, the support didn’t come close to matching the passion of the opposing arguments. Foggy’s hopes were falling.

\---

The meeting ran late into the evening, and it was nearly midnight when Foggy got back to their room, Matt was still lying in bed with the headphones on, listening to the static blaring through the speakers, yet again trying to drown out the world around him.

It wasn’t that Foggy couldn’t understand why Matt was doing it. Hell, he’d probably be doing it too if he were in Matt’s position. However, it didn’t mean that it was right.

Matt raised his hand in greeting, but he didn’t ask how the meeting went.

This apathy on Matt’s part had been going on for over a week. Foggy had hoped it would be just a phase, that things would get better.

Over the last week, Foggy had been watching Matt withdraw deeper and deeper into himself, and what disturbed him most was that it seemed to be just a continuation of what had been happening since the ordeal of being detained just after Christmas. Matt didn’t leave their room in the daytime unless he was at Foggy’s side, he seemed confused when faced with making decisions and deferred to Foggy’s opinion so regularly that Foggy stopped asking and chose for him. In class, Matt was silent.

Matt couldn’t go on like this. Foggy wasn’t going to let him. At least, when Matt had been going out to 'run' at night there had been some part of his life he seemed enthusiastic about.

Though he’d just gotten back, Foggy got up, donned his jacket, put on his shoes and stood by the door. “Matt, I’m going for a walk.”

Matt sat up. “Now?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s late. You don’t know what’s out there.”

Foggy leaned against the door. “If you’re worried, come with me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Matt pressed his lips together and said nothing; Foggy rolled his eyes. “I’m rolling my eyes at you,” Foggy informed him, which made Matt roll his eyes at him. Foggy put his hand on the doorknob and Matt tensed visibly.

“Don’t,” Matt said.

Foggy opened the door and walked out. Matt caught up with him by the time he reached the bottom of the stairs. He took hold of Foggy’s elbow as he always did, though Foggy suspected, this time, it had more to do with keeping Foggy within reach than being led.

Foggy chose the direction they went in, behind the dorm and across the street to Morningside Park. “Anyone around?”

“No. It’s quiet,” Matt answered.

“Are you having any inexplicable urges to run off and beat someone up?”

“No, that’s not— I don’t run around beating people up; you know that.” Matt let go of Foggy’s elbow and distanced himself. “And I know what you’re doing. You always do this.”

“Do what?”

“This. Manipulating me into getting annoyed with you. When you think I need,” Matt waved his arm in the air ambiguously as he searched for the right word, “when you think I’m not acting the way I should. You do this to me all the time.”

“It works,” Foggy admitted. “It got you out of bed and away from those headphones. What if you screw up your hearing?”

“That wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

Foggy stopped walking. “You’re special, Matt. Your extra senses are a gift.”

The resulting answer was a bitter laugh. “They aren’t a gift, Foggy. They’re a curse. I can hear everything. I hear the kids who cry because they’re lonely. I hear the guy down the hall who obsessively masturbates whenever his roommate is out of the room. I can smell when Kevin makes himself throw up. I know who is cheating. I know what they say about you behind your back, and I know what they say about me. I don’t want to listen to it anymore.”

Matt’s breath was shaky. Foggy wanted nothing more than to make everything better, to fix things. He felt frustrated watching his friend suffer and not being able to do anything about it. “And when you’re going out at night do you hear less?”

“I keep moving so that I’m not in one place long enough to make sense of most of what I hear. There are things I pick up unintentionally, things that I’ve learned to listen for—how footsteps sound when a person is trying to be quiet, or the tension in the voice of someone who is in pain or angry. I don’t know how to block those out.”

“You helped people, Matt.”

“And I lost my temper and broke someone’s arm. What if that’s who I am? What if I’m just as bad?”

No freaking way was Foggy letting Matt think that. “You had a reason to be angry; the kid you were trying to protect had been sold the same as you. I’d be more concerned if you didn’t feel a little unhinged in that moment. Matt, there’s nothing wrong with you.”

“There’s a lot wrong with me, Foggy.”

“Yeah well, there’s a lot wrong with me too. We can form a club. Secret handshakes and everything.”

That, at least, made Matt laugh.

Foggy imagined what it must be like to be able to pick up on so much, to hear everything and not be able to tune it out. “It hasn’t always been this bad with your senses, has it? ”

“It hasn’t been this bad since after my dad died.”

“How did you get control over it then?”

“I had a teacher. He taught me how to focus.”

“Is he someone we could find to help you again?”

“No, even if I wanted that, I have no idea how I would even start to look for him.”

“Is it something I could help you with?”

“I don’t think so.”

They walked in silence for a while. “Matt, can I ask you something?”

“You just did.”

Foggy sighed. Well, at least Matt still had something of his humor intact. Fine then. “There was something that came up at the meeting that got me thinking. Do you think I bully you?”

That time Matt laughed outright. “Do you think if I thought you were bullying me, I would be willing to tell you that I think you’re bullying me?”

“Matt, please. I’m serious. Am I mean to you?”

“You threw your dirty socks at my head this morning to wake me up.” Matt took Foggy’s elbow again and urged him to keep walking.

Foggy nodded. Yeah. He did. And he hadn’t been sorry. Not until now.

Matt continued, “You manipulated me into coming outside with you tonight. When I tell you I’m not hungry, you ignore me and try to get me to eat. The evidence is against you.”

“Sorry.”

“I’m not done. You make me forget that I’m property of the Centre. Even _you_ forget that’s what I am most of the time.”

“You’re not property, Matt.”

“You have a three-year rental contract with my ID number on it.”

“Based on a corrupt system. It’s not who you are.”

Matt nodded, and they walked on.

“I don't want you to stop going out completely. I just want you to be careful.”

Matt slowed down and pulled Foggy gently to the side and down a path to the right. “There are people up ahead,” he explained softly. “We should go back. It’s not safe out here.”

“Matt, I want you to be happy.”

“I _am_ happy,” Matt said unconvincingly, and Foggy wondered if Matt even knew how disingenuous he sounded. “You’ve given me so much. I shouldn’t be going out and risking everything just so I can push my limits. I shouldn’t be coming home with bruises that make people think you’re abusing me.”

“People don’t think that,” Foggy lied.

“I can hear them talking, Foggy. I know exactly what people think about us.”

They walked a little further until Foggy noticed Matt was leading them on a circular path going back to the University. “Is it about going outside, or is it about exercise and training?”

“Both,” Matt answered.

“I don’t know how to help you, Matt.”

“I’ll try harder,” Matt promised.

But Foggy thought about all the students who were at the meeting earlier that night, the attitude about wards on campus was not getting any better. Foggy was at a loss.

When they got back to the dorm, Matt gave Foggy back the headphones, and Foggy started searching online for nearby affordable apartment rentals.

It was going to get better.


	47. Heart

 

 

After promising to try harder and giving back Foggy’s headphones, Matt stayed up the rest of the night, listening to Foggy’s heartbeat long after Foggy drifted off to sleep. Every time his attention was drawn away by a sound or smell, he pinched the back of his hand, _hard_ , and refocused. His attention wavered more as the night progressed, and he started to drift asleep.

The urge to go back out, to enjoy the freedom Foggy allowed him, encompassed nearly every thought. Going out with Foggy tonight only reinforced that urge. He needed to be out there. It was easy to focus his attention while he was out there exploring the back alleys and rooftops, he felt alert and powerful. _In control._

But he couldn’t. It was too high a price to pay. Every privilege he had was dependent on Foggy, he owed Foggy everything, and every time he went out like that was a betrayal to all the things Foggy did for him. Matt deliberately hurt someone, and what was worse as that he honestly believed the man he hurt deserved it. And there had been the others, the ones he injured while stopping them from hurting others. Shouldn’t there also be some remorse on his part for the level of violence he used against them? It scared him how good it felt to make them feel the kind of pain they would have caused their victims. For true forgiveness you need to be repentant. Matt was not repentant. He felt guilty about not living up to who he wanted to be for Foggy, but not for the pain he caused.

The confusion and guilt robbed him of his ability to focus and his ability to cope.

The static over the earphones had helped dampen the crush of sound around him, but every time he allowed himself to rely on an outside source to overpower the deluge of sensory input inundating him, when he no longer had that crutch everything became so much worse. It was a cycle he was falling deeper and deeper into, and Foggy was right, he needed to try harder.

For Foggy, he would try harder.  

Focus had been the first thing Stick taught him—how to overcome the crushing sensory input bombarding his every waking moment and concentrate had been the first step. The trick was to aim his attention on just one thing. It sounded easy, but it was mentally taxing. And right now, it was necessary. He was of no good if he wasn’t in control of his _gifts._

Back in the day, in order to learn, Stick had made him sit for hours, listening to the ticking of an old pocket watch on the floor in front of him. He’d hated it then, too, but he also knew he needed to master the art of concentration to be able to live a halfway normal life.

He could still hear Stick’s voice. _“Come on, this is primary school stuff, how do you expect to learn anything if you can’t follow one simple command?”_

Other sounds and distractions would always pull his focus away, and somehow Stick knew the moment he wavered, _“Pay attention, Matty,”_ he’d say, and punctuate his words with a stinging slap of his white cane across Matt’s shoulder blades.

Matt knew Foggy would buy him a pocket watch if he asked him to, but he didn’t need it. How much easier would it have if he had been instructed to listen to something he cared about? Matt focused on Foggy’s heart.

Matt fell asleep, still focusing on Foggy’s heart.

\---

Morning radio programs, alarms, and snooze buttons engulfed his senses upon waking, and Matt reached for the headphones before remembering his new intention. Foggy’s heartbeat. The latter of whom was already awake.

“Good morning,” Foggy said from his desk. The computer was already on; Matt could hear Foggy scrolling through something with the mouse wheel. “Do you know anything about accommodation standards?”

Matt felt tired, but he sat up. “About what?”

_CFRW Morning Program played its repetitive, twangy jingle and then set in on soliciting collars for a contest. Be the 5 th caller and play Trivia with Laurie to win cash and prizes! _

Foggy. Matt crossed his legs under him and honed in on his roommate. The steady pulse and rhythm of—

“Housing regulations for live-in wards.”

“Is there something wrong with our room?”

“No, I’m looking at apartments.”

Moving? Why? Matt rubbed his thumb over the back of his hand to remind himself to keep a steady focal point on Foggy’s heart while also paying attention to Foggy’s voice.

But why would Foggy be looking at apartments?

“Is something wrong, Foggy? Did something happen?” Matt asked.

He needed to stay calm and avoid losing focus. He needed to avoid becoming overwhelmed.

“If we’re going to have our own apartment, apparently we’ll either need a two bedroom with enhanced security measures, which is unfortunately outside my price range, or a converted confinement area.”

Matt listened to Foggy move the computer mouse around on his desk as he presumably searched the website. “Okay, here’s what it says, ‘Confinement areas must be sufficient in size and height and of a design that permits each ward confined therein to: 1) stand normally to their full height; 2) turn around easily; 3) move about easily for the purpose of posture adjustments; and 4) lie down in a fully extended position.’ You’re five foot ten, so that would be, what—anything over six feet in length, right?”

Matt pushed down his rising anxiety. He liked the dorm. “You want to move?”

“Don’t you think it would be nice to have more space?” Foggy asked.

“I’m fine right here, to be honest,” Matt said and pinched his hand to fix his attention back to Foggy’s heart. For him, an apartment didn’t mean more space, it meant he’d have to sleep alone, locked in a small converted storage space. He liked having a bed and sharing a room. Foggy had given him half the room, but it was more than what he needed. If he reorganized his things, maybe Foggy would be happy.

“I’m making a few appointments for us to go this weekend and check a few things out,” Foggy said.

“What about our dorm room?”

“There’s a whole list of students waiting to get in. I already checked with student services, it won’t be a problem.”

\---

The mental exercises were working—mostly. How long had it taken the last time for him to gain control? Matt remembered walking around with that stupid watch in his pocket for what felt like ages (it had smelled like sweat and metal, and he hated how the inner gears squealed).

Foggy’s heart, of course, went where Foggy went, and so Matt found himself without his focal point several times over the next few days. He wondered if he should go ahead and ask Foggy for a watch with a ticking second hand instead.

But he didn’t.

He tried to rearrange his belongings instead, but he found that Foggy was right—there wasn’t enough space in their small dorm room. He couldn’t move anything around because there was nowhere to move it to. The best he could come up with was to put his books under the bed to make some room on the bookshelf for Foggy to use.

So what else could he do? Maybe if he was quieter, or stayed out of the way? It wasn’t difficult, the mental exercise of focusing on Foggy’s heartbeat to block out all other sounds took up most of his concentration. He tried not to be disruptive or inconvenient, but Foggy continued looking through the classifieds and reading out the rental units that seemed to fit his criteria.

On Saturday morning, Foggy told Matt to get ready; he’d made appointments at three apartments and explained where they were, their prices, and their descriptions. Two of them were within a fifteen-minute walk to the university. Those were the ones Foggy was most interested in.

“Are you sure you want me to come with you?”

“Of course I do.”

Matt got dressed—it wasn’t like he had a lot of variety in his clothing but he asked anyway, “Do I look okay?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

That wasn’t an answer. “You checked that they are ward-friendly?”

“Yes, that was the first thing I looked for. I passed on anything that didn’t already have proper accommodations. They’re all certified to pass inspection.”

Matt got up and placed his hand on Foggy’s dresser. He hadn’t worn a collar since getting out of the hospital. “I should wear the collar.”

“If that’s what’s expected, it’s not the right place for us.”

Matt didn’t disagree, but… “Just for today, to make a good impression on the landlord.”

Foggy sighed, and Matt stepped aside as Foggy opened his drawer and took the metal band out. “Okay, stand still.”

He placed his hand on the back of Matt’s neck first. Matt instinctively froze.

“It’s okay, you’re alright.” Foggy whispered.

The palm of Foggy’s hand warmed his skin, and Matt reached up and held Foggy’s arm in place until the pressure felt normal rather than threatening. Some of the tension slowly eased out of his shoulders.

“Okay, I’m ready,” Matt said, and Foggy locked the band in place.

“Matt, breathe,” Foggy reminded him.

Matt gasped for the air he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and Foggy kept a hand on his shoulder as he struggled to draw in a breath.

All his senses narrowed to the constricting metal pressing against his neck. He cleared his throat afraid to swallow because it felt, it felt like he couldn’t breathe and yet he was breathing. He knew he wasn’t choking; it was the same collar he’d warn for four years.

“Matt, hold still, I’m going to take it off you.”

He caught Foggy’s hands before they made it to his neck. “No.” _Breathe in._ “I’ll be okay.” _Breathe out._ Listen to Foggy’s heartbeat racing.

Matt was overreacting. He just needed to concentrate, the same strategy that worked for blocking the world out could also help him focus on letting it back in.

“Are you going to be okay?”

“If they pass legislation on wearing the collars in public, I’m going to have to get used to it again.”

“You don’t have to deal with it today.”

“If you want me to come with you and you don’t want to be turned away at the door, then yes, I do.”

“I want you to come with me, Matt.”

Because one of the concerns about the apartments was distance, Foggy decided it would be best to walk. He explained that he started with the furthest one, which was also the cheapest. The building was brick, and the apartment was on the third of four floors. The buzzer was broken, Foggy had to call the landlady to be let in, and she met them at the door.

The smell of cigarettes assaulted Matt’s senses as soon as the door opened, and he stepped to the side as she greeted Foggy warmly, “Hello, my name is Jane. You must be here to see the apartment, so nice to meet you.”

She shook Foggy’s hand. Matt may as well not have been there at all. The halls were narrow and lined with carpet, old and moldy from years of wet boots and shoes, and Matt carefully used his cane to navigate the steps while the landlady talked.

“We’ve had plenty of student residents here. The distance is ideal, and you won’t find anywhere nicer for this price.”

At the third floor, she walked down the hall and unlocked the door with one of many keys attached to a ring.

Foggy hung back and placed his hand on Matt’s arm to guide him in and then switched to offering his elbow.

The apartment smelt like stale smoke, urine, and the fish someone was cooking in the apartment below. Matt couldn’t help wrinkle his nose at the pungent odors. The main window faced the busiest street, and the sound of trucks passing reverberated against the window panes. It was a small tour, the kitchen living room and bedroom.

“The window sometimes sticks, I’ve unlatched it from inside, but it isn’t painted shut. Sometimes you can get it better from the outside. All it needs is a little grease.”

And, of course, Foggy offered to check it out for her. She found a bottle of grease under the sink, and he climbed out the window next to it onto the fire escape to see what he could do.

Matt waited in the hall.

All of it was terrible, and Matt wanted to leave as soon as possible. He would have told Foggy how bad the place was if the landlady stopped hovering so close. It was only the first apartment, and there were still two more to go. But what if they were all this bad?

“You,” The landlady slapped his arm to get his attention and wrapped her fingers around his wrist. “I’ll show you the converted space, it’s Centre certified.” She held up his wrist for a moment and studied his ID bracelet. “Not even a working ward? What is a college student doing with a state-dependent?”

It wasn’t a real question. Matt stayed quiet.

“Are you soft in the head?” she asked.

Matt sighed and tried his best to ignore her.

The ‘converted space’ was a storage closet beside the bathroom. She opened the door, and the smell that wafted out made his stomach churn. “Go ahead, try it out,” she urged.

Matt didn’t move.

“I gave you an order, or would you rather I file a complaint against you? This is my building, and you are under my roof. Go on, go inside.”

Ignoring her was no longer an option, and so Matt stepped forward.  

“All the way,” she urged.

Reluctantly, he took a few more steps, holding out his hand to reach the far wall and then turned around.

“It’s big enough for you, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Matt answered.

“Lie down, and stretch out. Get a feel for it,” she ordered.

The floor was filthy; there was actually dried urine on the floor. He didn’t want his clothes dirty for the rest of the day. Why wasn’t Foggy back inside yet? He didn’t lie down.

She took a step forward and he stepped away, pressing his back against the wall.

“You’re going to tell your owner you like it here,” she said softly but threateningly.

She was confident, her heart slow and steady, secure in the knowledge that he was just a ward. How dare she try and bully him when his supervisor was just in the other room, doing her a favor.

“No.”

She backed up and slammed the door shut.

Shit. Matt grabbed at the door to pull it open but there was no handle on the inside. Pushing did nothing, the latch had slipped into place and he had no access to it. The door itself was sturdy, made out of heavy wood.

The only way he was getting out was to be let out. Fantastic.

Being confined in this small space made his heart start pounding with anxiety. He took shallow breaths, tried to breathe as little of the stinking air as possible. He reached up and brushed his fingers against the vent in the ceiling—it was blocked. There was no movement to the air, and very likely never had been.

His senses played tricks on him; the walls felt like they were moving, getting tighter. Matt stood still, listening. The landlady was standing outside the door. Foggy was still on the fire escape. How long was Foggy going to keep messing with the stupid window?

Minutes passed. He could still hear Foggy’s heartbeat, but it was distant. Matt went over Foggy’s tenets in his head to distract himself. Foggy would notice he was missing soon and come let him out.

Distantly, he heard wood scraping against wood as the window Foggy was working on finally moved and opened. Foggy would be back soon. He would open the door.

They started talking in the bedroom. The landlady was telling him about some of the other renters in the building. A single lady on the second floor his age. How pretty she was.

_“Matt?”_

Matt stepped up to the door and hit his hand against the wood. “In here.”

He heard Foggy’s steps come closer, the handle twisted and the door opened, letting in relatively fresh air, and Foggy took his arm and practically yanked him out.

“What the hell happened?”

The landlady stepped forward, speaking quickly. “I was showing him the converted space, and the door must have slid shut while I was talking to you.”

Matt took several cleansing breaths. “She’s lying. She locked me in.”

Her voice rose in pitch and volume. “How dare you accuse me of being a liar. This ward has been nothing but trouble since you brought him in here, and I demand he be punished this instant or I’ll call the Centre and make a formal complaint. I know his ID number.”

Foggy placed himself between Matt and the woman. “You had no right to shut the door on him.”

“He’s a liar.” She fumed. “And this is my building. What kind of supervisor allows his ward to make false accusations against citizens? I should report you as well.”

At the threat against Foggy, Matt stepped out from behind him and dropped to his knees. “I’m sorry; it was a gust of wind from the open window. I was wrong.”

She huffed and cuffed him across the head before Foggy could intervene. 

“It was my fault;" Matt continued, "I’m sorry for causing trouble. Foggy, please accept my apology.”

“Matt,” Foggy started.

Matt bowed lower to the ground. “Please, may we leave?”

“Get up,” Foggy told him.

“Thank you.” Matt stayed on his knees for a moment longer, until the landlady backed away and then he stood, walking several paces behind Foggy as they left. That only lasted until they reached the landing, and then Foggy took his hand to guide him down the stairs. Once they were outside Foggy led him off the sidewalk and out of the way of pedestrians.

“You with me, Matt?”

Matt nodded.

“I’m not happy.”

Matt nodded, that was evident. “Please don’t be mad. She wasn’t lying, Foggy. She would have filed a complaint against both of us. We can’t afford to attract the attention of the Centre over something frivolous like-”

“Getting pissed off at someone locking you in a closet isn’t frivolous.”

But it was. Did Foggy not see that?

“How?” Matt demanded. “I didn’t like it, but what difference does it make who shuts the door? Today it was her. When you decide on an apartment, it will be you. It all comes down to the same thing.”

“I’m not locking you in any closets, Matt.”

“Not yet.”

“Not _ever_ ,” Foggy insisted. “The apartment we choose will have to follow Centre regulations, but that doesn’t mean I intend to use it. It will have to be set up to look like it is, but I’m never going to lock you inside any rooms, let alone window-less storage closets. Geez, Matt, after everything we’ve been through you could try having a little bit of faith in me.” 

“I have faith in you.”

“You don’t,” Foggy insisted. “At every turn, you think I’m going to abandon you when things get rough, or if your grades aren’t good enough, or if _you_ aren’t good enough. I'm not mad at you, I’m pissed off because even though you were in the right, you still ended up having to kneel down and beg for forgiveness. It sucks, Matt. I’m mad at this stupid world, and I don’t even know if you understand that.”

“I do,” Matt answered.

“Right,” Foggy said and rubbed at his face. “Should I call the other apartments and reschedule?”

“Why do we have to move?”

“I’m worried about you.”

“What does that have to do with where we live? I like our dorm room, Foggy. If you need more space, you can get rid of some of my stuff, anything you think I don’t need. I like sharing a room with you.” There. He had said it.

But Foggy seemed adamant. “We’re still going to share a room. With an apartment we’ll have our own kitchen and a living room, somewhere that will be ours where we can relax. I’ll ask you again. Do you want me to reschedule the appointments?”

“No,” Matt, "You don't have to do that because of me," he and took Foggy’s arm to urge him onward.

“It’s your decision too, I want you to tell me what you think.”

“The one we just saw smelled like piss and mold,” Matt offered.

“See? Good to know. Not that it matters. I wouldn’t live in the same building as that woman if the only other option was to sleep under a bridge.”

The next apartment went better. The door buzzer worked. The voice letting them in, an older woman by the sound of it, told them to meet her at apartment 306. She met them at the door and she shook Foggy’s hand. Although she didn’t shake Matt’s hand, she did greet him with a hello.

The living room felt spacious, one bedroom, one bathroom with a tub, kitchen with a stove and dishwasher. It was well ventilated and smelled like pine cleaners. Hardwood floors. The insulation sounded good. The walls thick. The windows opened out to a back lane. The building had been renovated back in the nineties, and Foggy told him the original brick on the outer walls was painted white. 

And it had a converted space to confine a ward. “We are certified by the Centre as having appropriate ward accommodations. I’m sorry it’s so small, but it does fit code.”

Matt felt himself tensing up as she opened the door of the closet. He braced himself, ready to be instructed to be told to step inside and try it out again. Instead, he heard a metallic scrape of a tape measure.

“How tall is he?” the landlady asked.

“Five ten.”

She passed Foggy the tape measure and stepped into the closet and pulled the tip to the end. “What do you have?”

“Six feet five inches,” Foggy answered.

“And it’s three feet across. That’s enough to pass inspection,” She added and gave Foggy a business card with her phone number on it. “How many more places do you have left to see today?”

“One more.”

“Well, if you’re interested, I’ve had a few people phoning. Apartments this close to the university don’t stay available for long.”

The next apartment they didn’t even look at. Matt pulled Foggy’s arm back before he could even ring the buzzer, “Not here. There're mice. A lot of them.”

Foggy stepped back. “Oh, let’s skip this one then. What did you think of the second apartment?”

“It smelled good; it was quiet,” Matt admitted.

Foggy called her back right after lunch and told the landlady they’d take it.

 


	48. Supportive

Foggy had hoped that the prospect of moving into an apartment would help pull Matt out of the funk he’d fallen into. He was too quiet, too still, and even though he’d told Foggy he didn’t think there was anything Foggy could do to help him, Foggy was determined to try.

Unfortunately, there were no easy internet searches on how to help disturbed state-wards with hypersensitive senses cope with information overload. Who’d have thought? Apparently wiki-how didn’t have all the answers after all.

On Sunday, Foggy signed the rental agreement, and on Monday, he submitted, in writing, his intentions to move and the address change to student services.

The pile of furniture catalogs from Ikea was stacked on his desk and Foggy flipped through them, looking for things he and Matt would need in their new place.

“Should we get one of those leg lamps? How about a Ping-Pong table? Bean bag chairs instead of a sofa?”

Mostly, Matt ignored him.

“So, for real this time, we can fit a single bed and a futon into the bedroom. That way, if there’s an inspection, we can fold up the futon and make it look like a couch,” Foggy suggested. “And we need furniture. There’s a thrift shop on Tenth. Any color preferences?”

Matt snorted.

“Do you prefer lemon yellow or banana yellow?” Foggy asked.

“There’s a difference?”

“Of course there is, one is sour the other is sweet.”

“Banana then, definitely,” Matt answered.

“My grandmother had a couch with pirate ships all over it when I was a kid. I wonder if they still make material like that.”

Without even bothering to pause what he was reading, Matt answered, “A banana colored pirate ship couch. What else are you going to have in your apartment?”

“Our apartment,” Foggy corrected. “Come on, Matt, say it. _Our_ apartment _._ ”

He didn’t say it. Without turning around, Matt flicked the tiny rubber stegosaurus toy Foggy bought for him while recovering from the surgery over his shoulder, hitting Foggy square in the chest. “Take me shopping with you and I’ll make sure whatever you chose doesn’t have cat pee and smoke all over it. You’re responsible for color and design.”

“My hero,” Foggy answered and tossed the dinosaur back, marveling at how easily Matt reached up and caught it. He didn’t think he would ever stop being amazed at seeing Matt’s unique abilities in action, even when it came to things as simple as catching stuff without ‘seeing’ it.

The week passed quickly—there were classes, packing, lists of things to buy. By the next Saturday morning, Foggy’s mind was spinning, and there was only one more week before the move. There was still too much to do. He had to file a formal address change (so many forms to fill out) on Matt’s lease and make an appointment to have a certified inspection. He needed to update the address on his bank cards, supervisor’s license, health card, and call his contact at the research facility and inform them of the change as well. What else was there? Change the address on his cell phone bill, and order internet access.

Matt wasn’t participating in any of it, even when Foggy asked him real questions about things he would like to have or what he’d like to do. All he got in return were monosyllabic responses.

“Should we get one of those Braille labelers?”

“If you think we should,” Matt said.

“What about one of those talking memo things for the fridge so we can leave each other notes?”

“We have cellphones.”

“Is there anything you can think of that you might need?”

“No.”

Matt didn’t seem to care.

Now, Matt was lying in bed with headphones on, and Foggy felt so stressed he thought he might spontaneously combust. Were they back to this shit now? Was Matt listening to the white noise in the effort to blot out the world again? Couldn’t Matt understand that Foggy _needed_ him? Didn’t he know that Foggy would take care of him and keep him safe? Hadn’t he done enough to prove it already? What more could he do?

“What are you listening to?”

Matt frowned and turned towards him. “An audiobook,” he said, sitting up and passing everything over. Foggy listened for a moment. Oh, so it _was_ an audiobook.

“Sorry, I thought you were back to listening to white noise again.”

“I told you I’m trying harder.”

“Well, then maybe you could try harder at being supportive.”

Foggy tossed the phone and headphones back to Matt and stood up. The room felt cramped, even more so now with half packed boxes on the floor. “You realize I’m doing this all for you, don’t you?”

“Don’t put this on me; I never asked to move,” Matt argued. “We were doing okay here, weren’t we? Why can’t we stay where we are?”

“We’re not staying, even if it wasn’t too late to change my mind. And no, Matt, you’re not okay. You haven’t been _okay_ since I met you.”

“I’m better than I was.” Matt’s voice rose with irritation. “And I want to stay here.”

And that wasn’t what Foggy wanted to hear either. “Why?”

“I like it here.”

 _I like it here_ , wasn’t a good enough answer. “And you’ll like it at our new apartment, too.”

“Why do you have to change things? I’m doing everything I can to be the person you want me to be, can’t you see that?”

“I _can_ see that, but it’s not enough,” Foggy said. “I don’t want a slave; I want a partner.”

The look on Matt’s face was enough to tell Foggy immediately how big of a mistake he’d just made with those words. Matt’s face paled, his expression turned carefully neutral, his fists clenched. “I can’t be your partner, Foggy, because I _am_ a slave. I’m a state-ward, the Centre _owns_ me. That isn’t going to change.”

“Matt, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yes. Yes, you did. That’s what you’ve been trying to tell me, isn’t it?”

Foggy knew he messed up. Matt wouldn’t be listening to anything he said anymore. Foggy already knew from experience that there was a separate dialogue going on in Matt’s head, thoughts ingrained by four years of systematic abuse and authoritarian control, and he should have known better than say something so out of line and cruel.

Foggy wanted to punch himself. He’d been a complete asshole; he was anxious about the move, feeling overwhelmed at the monumental task of getting everything completed on time, and wrestling with his disappointment over Matt’s lack of enthusiasm. None of it was an excuse.

Matt wasn’t at fault. Foggy shouldn’t have taken it out on him.

It wasn’t like Matt wasn’t trying to help; he was blind, and he was a ward, there was a limit to the things he _could_ do. As a ward, Matt didn’t have legal authority to make calls and request address changes, and being blind; he couldn’t fill out forms or write out to-do lists. (He could, but there was no guarantee Foggy could read it later.)

“We need to move, Matt.” Foggy sighed. “There’s too much going on here. The Centre propaganda, the petitions, student council meetings to address the ward ‘problems’ on campus. You were running off every night just to get away from this place. You shouldn’t have to run around Morningside Heights to exhaust yourself enough to sleep, or to sit with headphones on to escape the bullshit around you. I feel like I’m not doing enough to help you.”

“You want me to be supportive, I will. Please, just tell me what to do,” Matt pleaded, no longer angry but sounding desperate to make things right.

Foggy cringed, he forgot, he always forgot how fragile Matt’s confidence was. Matt hadn’t stood a chance against Foggy tearing him down.

He was such an asshole.

“I want you to appreciate what I’m trying to do for us.”

“I appreciate everything you do for me.”

Foggy sat back down. “I don’t want to do this alone, Matt.”

“You’re not alone.”

“But I kind of feel like I am. What can I say to convince you that this is the right decision for us? I’ll cook for you, we’ll have something other than pop tarts in the morning when we’re too lazy to go to the cafeteria.”

“I don’t mind pop tarts. They’re better than the Readymade food in the cafeteria.”

“Readymade? Aren’t those the pre-made food tins? I’ve never made you eat that stuff.”

“The cafeteria uses their brand.”

“Really?” Foggy made a face. “The cafeteria uses ward-food?”

“Ward-food is still food.”

“Why haven’t you ever said anything about it before? We could have eaten elsewhere.”

And at that, Matt looked perplexed. “You liked eating there.”

“I also can’t smell which sandwiches are fresh or if the cook washed their hands after going to the bathroom. You said nothing about not liking the food in the cafeteria.” Keeping the annoyance out of his voice was difficult. Was that part of Matt’s food issues? Was it a stress response because of the association it had with the Centre and his other placements? How was he supposed to know what was bothering him if Matt never said anything?

He didn’t want to get annoyed again, he wanted to make Matt feel better, not tear him down even further.

“I want to make life better for you.”

“My life is already better.”

“More-better,” Foggy explained.

“But what if it’s worse?”

“Like having to sleep in the converted space,” Foggy said. “How could you even think I would do something like that to you?”

“It is Centre regulation. That’s how the system works.” Matt retorted.

“That’s not how it works with us, you know that.”

“Sorry, I know, I didn’t mean to make you think I don’t trust you. Foggy, I trust you more than anything in this world.” Matt said. “But, I can’t—”

“You can’t what?”

“I can’t let myself count on it.”

“So, what you do is expect the worst so you won’t be disappointed?” Foggy asked.

Matt’s fingers were fidgeting with nervously along the pocket of his jeans. “Whenever I look forward to something, it goes wrong.”

“Matt, I know you’ve had a lot of shit happen to you, but you aren’t cursed. What’s the last thing you let yourself look forward to?”

“Foggy, don’t.”

“Please answer me, Matt.”

“I wrote my ID on a piece of paper so you could find me again.”

“Back when I was in the hospital? I remember waking up and finding it in my hand. I didn’t need it, I already had your number memorized.”

“And then you died.”

“Matt. Are you even listening to yourself? I got _better_ ; we _will_ work together to change the system,” Foggy got up and grasped Matt’s arm, pulling him up and hugging him so close he could feel Matt’s heart pounding in his chest. “I found you again, I kept my promise.”

Matt held on tight. “I would have waited, I swear if I thought there had been any chance of you coming back for me, I would have held on for that. I can’t lose you again.”

“You won’t. I’m right here,” Foggy felt his chest tighten. How much did losing him have to do with Matt’s downward spiral after having his lease transferred out of the hospital? “I’ve got you. I’m going to take care of you, and I’ll never abandon you or do anything to hurt you.”

“You can’t predict the future,” Matt whispered.

Foggy rubbed Matt’s back, he did not understand how to fix this, but no matter what, he would try. “It will be all right.” He led Matt over to the bed and sat down. “You look exhausted.”

Matt shrugged. “It’s just a headache.”

“I’m sorry. What I said to you was completely out of line. I don’t care about your status, Matt. You are my partner,” Foggy said, and Matt nodded. “Are you okay?”

Matt nodded again. “I’m just, it’s harder to focus when I’m– when I have a headache. I’ll be fine. It’s easier if I pay attention to just one thing.”

“What do you focus on?”

“Your heartbeat.”

“You listen to my— okay.” Foggy took a breath, unsure whether to be flattered or freaked out. “Can I try something? I know you said you didn’t think I could help you, but do you mind if I try? I found it on a website about stress management.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Lie down,” Foggy said. It was a little unnerving how willingly Matt pulled his legs up and lay down on his back beside him. “Close your eyes,” he instructed.

Matt closed his eyes. “Why?”

“Because _Wiki-how_ said that’s what you should do.”

“I’m blind, what does it matter?”

“It’s a guided meditation. You’re supposed to be quiet and listen, okay? Close your eyes. Good. You can listen to my heartbeat if it helps.” Foggy placed his hand on Matt’s chest, feeling the thump of his heart under his hand. “I’m listening to your heart, too.”

He watched Matt grin. “Ready?”

Matt’s expression turned serious. “Is this like hypnosis?”

“No. Have you been hypnotized before, Matt?”

“Yes. But they gave me drugs first.”

“Nothing like that,” Foggy promised. “Focus on your breathing.”

Matt’s lips parted as he took deeper breaths with his abdomen.

“Good.” The rhythm of Matt’s heartbeat under his hand was calming down.

“Do you want me to recite the tenets you gave me?” Matt asked.

“Shh. I want you to lie still and listen to my heartbeat and focus on your breathing. That’s it for now.”

Matt was quiet again.

Several minutes passed. “Are you still awake?” Foggy asked.

Matt laughed. “Yes.”

“Good. I want you to think of something you are looking forward to and tell me.”

Matt frowned, and underneath his hand, Foggy felt Matt’s heart beat pick up in pace. “Something small. For example; I’m looking forward to taking a walk in the park this evening.”

“I’m looking forward to walking in the park this evening.”

“No, that’s mine,” Foggy said. “This isn’t a repetition exercise; you need to make up your own. Start small and take your time.”

It took time, and Foggy would have thought Matt had fallen asleep if not for the stress line between his eyebrows. “I’m looking forward to having a muffin at the coffee shop later,” Matt murmured.

“Good,” Foggy praised him. “Now, tell me something that makes you happy.”

“You do.”

“Something else.”

“Reading,” Matt answered after a while.

“Good,” Foggy praised him again, and the more time he spent staring at Matt, the more he noticed little cues, like the tension between his eyebrows when he was thinking of an answer, or how his breath was just a little deeper as Foggy encouraged him.

“Now, tell me something you think you will like at the new apartment.” 

This one seemed more difficult. Foggy felt Matt tense up under his hand and he pressed a little more firmly against Matt’s ribs to help ground him. “Anything,” Foggy urged.

“Thicker walls,” Matt said.

“Good, and I want you to relax again.” He waited until Matt’s heart rate slowed, and his facial features smoothed out. “Doing okay?”

Matt nodded.

“Every morning I want you to tell me something you’re looking forward to, can you do that for me?” Foggy asked him and Matt nodded.

“Good,” Foggy said, “How about now we get that muffin at the coffee shop?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to tj_teejay for the beta read (so many times) and helpful crit and comments!


	49. Moving on

 

Morning. It was _the_ day. Matt rolled out of bed and turned off the ear-piercing ringing on Foggy’s alarm clock. Neither of them had gotten much sleep the night before.

Foggy sat up. Yawning. Stretching. “Okay, you know the drill, what are you looking forward to today?” Foggy asked.

Matt groaned. “Breakfast.” He reached for the backpack on his desk, the only stuff he’d left unboxed, and pulled out his clothes for the day. 

“Nope, you can do better,” Foggy urged.

Matt sighed. “I’m looking forward to being done with moving.”

“Good enough,” Foggy beamed, got up and patted Matt on the shoulder. “I’m looking forward to our new place,” he said. “Where do you want to go for breakfast?”

“Coffee shop?” Matt asked.

“Sure. Weird to think it will be our last time getting breakfast there.” 

Matt nodded. He didn’t care about the coffee shop, didn’t care if it was in another state, or if he’d never eat another muffin from there. He only preferred it because it wasn’t the cafeteria. It still didn’t feel right to stand in line and not hear Lynn ask him how things were going. The worst part was not knowing what had happened to her.

But. There was nothing he could do about that. His job was to take care of Foggy. He wanted to take care of Foggy the way Foggy took care of him. Matt wanted to be more supportive, not just about the apartment, but about everything. Foggy had never asked him to pretend to be excited; it was just a matter of taking a more active role; offering suggestions, asking questions. He cared about Foggy’s plans. It was just difficult when those plans involved moving away from the first safe place he’d known since leaving the orphanage.

And the fact that in his experience, anything good usually ended in disaster.

“Dad will be here at nine with his work truck, Candace insisted on coming too,” Foggy said while they were getting ready. Matt packed the rest of his things into the backpack; his toothbrush and nightclothes. He clipped his cell phone to his pocket.

This was it. This was the last walk to the coffee shop for breakfast. This was the last time standing in line among the regulars who didn’t even have to tell the barista what they wanted in their coffee.

He didn’t care about any of those things.

“You look like you’re about to face a death squad.” Foggy reached across the little table and grasped Matt’s forearm.

“There are death squads in New York?” Matt joked.

“Not today. It will be fine, Matt.”

Matt winced. “You can’t say that.”

“I can,” Foggy insisted. “Dad and Candace have both been looking forward to seeing you again.”

Matt knew that already. The night before Foggy had phoned his dad to confirm the time to they’d meet up the next morning.

Mr. Nelson told Foggy he did not want to see Matt mistreated during the move, to which Foggy assured him Matt would be okay, and his father was ridiculous to suggest otherwise. As a counter argument, Foggy explained that no one was to take it upon themselves to act as Matt’s supervisor. Foggy said _I’ve been handling Matt for six months, I know what he needs, and I’ll be the one taking care of him_.

Neither of them had a choice about their roles. _I’ve been handling Matt for six months…_ wasn’t the best selection of words, but Matt couldn’t be resentful about what was the truth.

Foggy did everything for him, and Matt was grateful for that. He knew the help he often needed from Foggy went far beyond friendship. As a friend, Foggy shouldn’t have to monitor his eating habits. As a friend, Foggy shouldn’t be burdened with Matt’s nightmares and irrational doubts and fears.

No matter how many times Foggy assured him it wasn’t his fault, Matt knew that Foggy’s life would be easier without him.

But, today was going to be a good day. Foggy was counting on his support. He needed to get over it. They walked back to the dorm, pausing briefly in front of the building.

“Describe it to me?” Matt said.

“What?”

“The building. What does it look like?”

“I never told you what our dorm looks like?”

Matt shook his head, “I have a picture of it in my head; ledges and square corners, the sounds echo off the brick unevenly. The roof is flat, I can hear the wind.”

“I can try, but my architectural vocabulary is sadly lacking,” Foggy apologized. 

Matt laughed. “And you think mine is any better? What do you see?”

“The main floor is white stone, arched windows, very historic and regal looking, and above that there’s a ledge. The rest of it is average so far as buildings go, all brick with little rectangular windows outlined in white stone, and yes the roof is flat.”

 “So, our dorm looks like a giant checkerboard?”

Foggy hummed. “No, not even a little.” 

And that earned a real laugh from Matt, and he tapped his white cane against Foggy’s shins.

Foggy draped his arm around Matt’s shoulders, and together they walked back inside. Everything was done, the only thing left was to wait for Mr. Nelson and Candace to arrive with the truck, and so they passed the time volleying a crumpled piece of paper back and forth.

“Are you even trying to aim?”

“Nope,” Foggy said as Matt had to dive again not to miss his turn.

It felt odd to have the past six months reduced to a few boxes. When Mr. Nelson phoned to let Foggy know he was waiting in the parking lot, they both took boxes down to load the truck. Candace ran upstairs with them on the next trip, and it didn’t take long to move everything out.

Foggy sat up front with his dad and Matt sat squished in the back seat with Candace, she giggled as he shifted sideways, his knees pressed against her thighs because there was barely room for his ankles let alone the rest of his legs.

“We’re studying a new book in Social Studies,” Candace said, tapping Matt on the knee. “It’s called Beyond Productivity and Obedience, new horizons in social engineering. It’s about Centre reform.”

Foggy twisted around in the passenger seat so he was facing the back. “Matt doesn’t want to hear about the propaganda you learn in school.”

“How do you know he doesn’t?” she retorted.

“Matt, you don’t want to hear about Candace’s propaganda, do you?”

Before Matt could answer she spoke out again. “He has to agree with you when you put it like that.”

“Matt’s allowed to disagree with me, Candace,” Foggy insisted.

“But he won’t.”

“Matt?” Foggy pressed, and Matt frowned. Foggy was right, he didn’t want to hear Centre propaganda, but now that Foggy had insisted that he could disagree, Matt felt like he should back Foggy up about being _allowed_ to disagree by actively disagreeing, even though he didn’t want to.

These were the mental gymnastics Matt hated most.  At least with Foggy, he knew he wasn't going to be punished for answering incorrectly. “I don’t mind hearing about the book you’re studying.”

Foggy made a self-satisfied noise, and Matt, even though he knew it would have been fine either way, felt gratified that his answer pleased him.

“He said that because you ordered him to _disagree_ with you,” Candace huffed. “It would be nice hear what Matt thinks about something rather than what you want him to think.” 

So, there was no right answer. 

Fortunately, it was a short drive. Foggy and his father went into the building to get the keys from the landlady and sign the lease agreement while Matt and Candace waited in the truck. Candace crawled forward into the driver’s seat where there was more room. 

“I’ve been thinking about how those Centre Agents treated you at Christmas,” she said. “It wasn’t fair.”

There wasn’t much he could say about that; he was in complete agreement.

“The book we’re taking isn’t just propaganda. The Centre has become an industrial tool to provide workers for factories, but it was supposed to help people,” she paused for a moment, but when Matt said nothing she continued. “It was formed to help reduce the overcrowded prison population and prepare the workers to be useful and productive citizens for when they get reintroduced into society.” 

“How does being treated like a slave help someone learn to be useful and productive?”

“Good question, Matt,” Candace praised him, and Matt hoped his facial expression didn’t show the exasperation he felt inside at being treated like a dog performing a new trick. “The way things are set up now, it doesn’t.  But, the supervisors and handlers are overworked and underpaid. Supervisors need better training and wages. With the proper instruction and discipline, the working wards under their care could learn how to respect their commands and work more efficiently.”

“So, you think the answer is _more_ discipline?”

“Studies show that obedience is good for wards. The reason these people get into the trouble is that they lack the basic reasoning skills and maturity to make better choices for themselves. They need rules and guidance from well-trained authority figures. With training, they can learn to obey their masters, but to do that they need to be in a controlled environment. They need to understand their proper place in society and learn to trust the government with their welfare.”

“And what do you think about state-dependents?” Matt asked before he could stop himself.

“The only reason for someone to be adopted permanently into the state-ward program is because they can’t take care of themselves. There’s no benefit to the Centre in having dependents. At least in the system, they are taught how to work and how to be productive members of society.”

She was wrong. The Centre was a terrible organization build on greed and misery. Nothing good would ever come from it, and Matt was just about to answer when Foggy knocked on the window, startling them both, and jingled his new keys in the air. Some things were better left unsaid. Maybe eventually he could sit down with her and Foggy and figure out how to explain things in a way she’d understand.

Candace stayed with the truck while Mr. Nelson, Foggy, and Matt carried the boxes inside.

And then it was done.

There were hugs, wishes of good luck and congratulations on your new apartment, and then Matt and Foggy were alone.

In Foggy’s new apartment.

“So?” Foggy asked.

Matt wandered around the space, trailing his fingers along the walls. “It’s big.”

“It will feel smaller with furniture.”

“You like it?”

“Yeah, I do.”

That was good enough for Matt, then. “I like it too.”

They spent the day cleaning dust out of corners and wiping cupboards, unpacking, grocery shopping, and furniture browsing at the local thrift shop.

Matt picked out the couch; no bugs, no smoke, no pet urine or fur. Foggy told him it was fuschia with green polka dots. Matt was inclined not to believe him, but he could feel the shift of texture where the fabric changed color, and yes, polka dots. The color of it was up for debate, but he didn’t ask the store clerk for verification. It may not always be one hundred percent accurate, but Matt loved the world Foggy painted for him with his descriptions, and he wasn’t about to start ruining it with reality.

Aside from the couch, they found other things to furnish the apartment with, tables and chairs, a painting that Foggy insisted they needed to have. _It’s mountains and trees, Matt, everyone needs a painting of mountains and trees, and it’s just two dollars!_

The store agreed to put their items aside until Foggy’s dad could come back with the truck the next day.

Their beds would be delivered from the furniture store on Thursday.

For tonight, Foggy Inflated his parent’s old air mattress. They stayed up late talking, lying side by side while Matt listened to the air slowly leaking out from under him.

Foggy had been right; the day hadn’t been a disaster. The world didn’t end.

Maybe it was okay to count on good things happening.

Maybe it was safe to let himself be happy sometimes.


	50. Wild Horses

The day after moving in, Mr. Nelson picked Foggy up, and they went together to get the furniture put aside the day before at the thrift store. Matt stayed behind, but Foggy texted him on the way back to let him know they were on their way and to come down and help bring things up.

“You’re not making your blind ward carry furniture up the stairs,” Mr. Nelson grunted.

Matt paused, unsure how to respond to that, but apparently he didn’t need to because Foggy had his back.  Foggy turned his dad and said. “Matt’s more capable than you think, dad. If there’s anything you see he can’t do, let me know.”

It wasn’t exactly stunning praise, but it sent tingles of pleasure down his spine nonetheless.

All the same, Matt was prohibited from helping with the larger more awkward and cumbersome pieces, the sofa and the dressers. He carried up the painting and helped Mr. Nelson by supporting the bottom half of the coffee table.

“Are you okay on the stairs?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you sure that isn’t too heavy for you?”

“I’m okay,” Matt answered.

“Last step before the landing.” Mr. Nelson warned.

Matt thanked him and didn’t trip. He could parkour across rooftops; he could help carry a coffee table up a set of stairs without falling over his feet.  

They made it to the top and placed it down in the future living room. The added furniture changed the acoustics in the room. The sofa absorbed a lot of the echo; the sounds reverberated off the new angles and surfaces recalibrating the shape of the room in his mind.  

“Where is your sleeping space?” Mr. Nelson asked.

The bedroom? Oh, Matt knew what Mr. Nelson meant; the converted space. The closet was beside the kitchen; Matt opened the door and stood back for Mr. Nelson to take a look.

Mr. Nelson’s breath huffed out angrily, and Matt quickly took a step back as the older man yelled, “Foggy!”

“Yeah, what?” Foggy called back, his voice muffled by the bedroom wall. There was a scrape of furniture legs as he moved a dresser.

“There’s not even a blanket in here,” his father called back. “Did you make your ward sleep on the bare floor last night?”

“The rest of our furniture doesn’t arrive until Thursday,” Foggy responded which Matt realized made no sense unless his father was already aware that Foggy had no intention to make Matt sleep in the converted space at all.

“He’s not sleeping on the floor again tonight.” Mr. Nelson pulled on his jacket. So, yeah. Mr. Nelson had no idea. “Matt, come with me, we’re going to go get you a proper sleeping pad.” He took Matt’s arm and started leading him toward the door.

Matt didn’t put up any resistance, but, “Foggy?” Matt called before Mr. Nelson could lead him out the door, adding just enough urgency to his tone of voice to hopefully make Foggy pay attention.

It worked. Foggy finally came out of the bedroom and saw what was going on, “Dad, let him go.”

“He needs something decent to sleep on.”

“Okay, fine. If you want to get Matt a sleeping pad I’ll go with you,” Foggy said.

Mr. Nelson let him go, and Matt stepped out of the way of the potential argument brewing. “I want to help him find something he likes.”

“I can do that.” Foggy insisted. “I’m his supervisor; that’s my job.”

Mr. Nelson sighed. “Fine. We should have a talk anyway.”

Foggy grabbed a jacket on the way out. “Matt, just take it easy for a while, I’ll be back soon.”

Matt nodded. He kept his attention on Foggy as he walked out of the building, the truck door slammed shut, and Matt recognized the now familiar rumble belonging to the engine of Mr. Nelsons work truck, _“Rosalind called me last week,”_ Mr. Nelson said.

Matt listened carefully.

 _“I know, she’s been emailing me for weeks,”_ Foggy answered. Matt frowned. That was news. Foggy hadn’t said anything about that. The turn signal clicked as Mr. Nelson indicated his intention to join traffic, and then they pulled away and out of Matt’s range of hearing.

Rosalind. Foggy’s birthmother, Matt’s official leaseholder. She was Foggy’s birth-mom, there were hundreds of reasons she could be emailing him. Not everything in Foggy’s life revolved around Matt and his lease.

If there were something he needed to know, Foggy would tell him. But. Why hadn’t he said anything about it already? Everything Foggy had ever said about his birthmother pointed towards trouble in one form or another.

He shouldn’t think about it and reminded himself again if Foggy wanted him to know, he would tell him. It was better to keep busy. Foggy had told him to take it easy, but it wasn't like he had to do nothing. Matt pulled the couch against the wall, and then positioned the coffee table in front. Next came the kitchen table, and he moved it aside to a spot that felt right and pushed the chairs under. 

Matt walked around the room, mapping it out, waiting for Foggy to come home.

What else could he do?

It was different here than anywhere else he’d been before. Well, everywhere was distinct when it came to background sounds, but the last time he’d been in an apartment building had been when he still lived with his dad, and that was before his senses developed to the point they were now. There was an elderly woman with a walker on the first floor, Matt could hear the base of her walker drag across the carpet of her suite. Three doors down there was a young woman with a baby, he’d listened to the baby cry several times the night before. There was the smell of soup, and fresh bread.

Matt stretched. Since he’d decided to stay by Foggy’s side and no longer go out at night, the ache in his back had started to return. He should have kept up with the physiotherapy exercises. The scar from the surgery to remove the implant itched and felt tight.

Their new apartment faced the back lane, making it potentially easier to sneak out here than it had been in the dorm. He could try again. Just for the exercise, not to guard the neighborhood.

No, he couldn’t. He’d been down that road already. If he was out there how could he justify ignoring the things he heard? Stopping even one or two terrible things, it made a difference didn’t it?

He could be careful.

If he kept his temper firmly in check.

Matt opened the window and climbed out onto the fire escape and sat down, listening for Mr. Nelson’s truck to return. After about an hour Matt heard the distinctive sound of the truck’s engine. The passenger door slammed shut. Foggy didn’t usually bang things. The way he moved sounded angry, quick loud motions, more force put into his actions than seemed necessary. Plastic bags crinkled. Footsteps on the stairs. Matt was so focused on listening that didn’t even realize he hadn’t gone back into the apartment yet. He was climbing in the window as Foggy and his dad walked in.

“Where were you?” Foggy asked.

Matt opened his mouth for a second then closed it, thinking. Foggy sounded angry. “I was on the fire escape. Sorry, I should have come down to help bring things upstairs.”

“Quit apologizing.” Foggy dropped his shopping bag on the floor.

“Are you mad at me for something?”

“No,” Foggy said, but his heart beat sped up. Matt didn’t understand. He quickly went through a list of things he might have done wrong, but he’d been good lately. Careful. But, there was more than one explanation to explain why Foggy’s heart sped up. It didn’t mean he was lying. Foggy was under a lot of stress.

Mr. Nelson placed his bag down more gently. “Matthew, we need to talk to you.”

That sounded ominous.

“No. We don’t,” Foggy said firmly.

The plastic of the bag crinkled as Mr. Nelson pulled something large out of his. “Matthew, come see if this is okay for you,” he called, and Matt had no choice but to step up and reach out his hand. Oh, the sleeping pad. A thick layer of foam in a heavy duty nylon cover. It was soft, better than anything he’d slept on in any of his previous placements.

“Thank you.”

“Go ahead and put it in your space.”

Both Foggy and his dad were watching him closely. Matt opened the door to the converted space and unrolled the cover, placing it inside and smoothing it out. It was thick, and would have made a decent sleeping pad if he was going to be sleeping on the floor like Mr. Nelson believed he was.

Even if Foggy changed his mind and decided he should sleep in the converted space, he was still privileged in so many other ways, so lucky that Foggy chose him.

“Thank you, Mr. Nelson,” Matt said.  

But then, Foggy stepped up to him and pulled him away from the closet and slammed the door shut, making Matt jump back a bit in surprise.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Foggy snapped at his dad. “Matt isn’t going to use the sleeping pad.”

Whatever argument Foggy had with his father down in the truck was now continuing up in their apartment, and worse, it was about him. Matt forced back the anxiety inside. He didn’t need to feel threatened by Foggy or his dad. Neither of them had ever tried to hurt him in the past.

“Son, there is nothing to be gained by being cruel-”

“How can you even think that?” Foggy demanded, his heart racing and his voice tight with anger. “Matt, go ahead, tell my dad where you slept last night.”

Matt faced the direction he could hear Mr. Nelson’s heart. “With Foggy,” he said. “I mean, next to Foggy. On the air mattress.”

"Foggy, for God's sake, he's a state dependent," Mr. Nelson exclaimed with disappointment. 

"There's only the one mattress," Foggy said, and his heart sped up and his face became warm with mounting anger. “When the rest of our furniture arrives, where will you sleeping?” Foggy pressed. 

“On the futon. In your bedroom.”

“Our bedroom,” Foggy corrected.

Matt nodded. “Our bedroom,” he repeated. 

“Foggy-”

“Matt,” Foggy continued. “Where will you not be sleeping?”

“In the converted space,” Matt answered.

“Dad, I don’t exploit Matt. I don’t abuse him, I don’t keep him secluded, I don’t lock him up, and I don’t starve him. He’s my friend.”

“Son, you don’t own your friends,” Foggy’s dad said.

And that was it. Matt backed away even further as Foggy’s temper exploded. “I didn’t have a choice,” Foggy yelled. “He was in the Market, what was I supposed to do? Just leave him there? I made a deal. The research institute is paying me to continue participating in the studies they are working on. It’s enough to cover Matt’s lease and school and this apartment and everything. Rosalind is just a name on the paper, she has no right to him.”

“God, Foggy. The Institute? Is he really worth all that? Whatever deal you made with your mother, it’s still her name on Matthew’s lease.”

“Of course, he’s worth it,” Foggy answered. “Rosalind is only his leaseholder because the Centre wouldn’t accept my application. She doesn’t have any right to interfere. Matt isn’t being trained to work for her, he’s going to work with me.” 

“Foggy, legally, he belongs to her,” Mr. Nelson corrected.

“He’s mine,” Foggy insisted. “She can’t have him.”

“Go through the rest of the stuff we picked up, make sure it looks like it’s in use in time for the apartment inspection,” Mr. Nelson walked forward and placed his hand on Matt’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Matthew,” he said and then gave Foggy a hug. “Visit, okay? Bring Matthew with you. We miss you more than you know.”

And then he left. Matt continued standing off to the side. Why were Foggy and his dad arguing over who he belonged to? Was Rosalind going to take him away from Foggy?

They stood together silently for a minute. “Why were you arguing about Ms. Sharpe?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing. She’s been asking questions about you, that’s all,” Foggy assured him. “Come on, we should start unpacking.”

Matt tried not thinking about it, but Foggy had said, _She can’t have him, he’s mine;_ that certainly didn’t sound like nothing.  

He couldn’t work beside Foggy and help unpack without thinking about it.

There was some cleaning that needed to be done anyway.

He could smell the previous owners. The apartment wasn’t unclean, someone had gone through a good amount of Lysol and bleach, but Matt dedicated himself to finding all the missed corners and unreached places.

The more he could erase the smell of the previous inhabitants, the more he could think of the new apartment as Foggy’s. Foggy was not going to let Rosalind take him away. It wouldn’t happen. Foggy had gotten him out of the detention facility, and had taken him out of the clinic to take care of him at home.

Foggy had said,  _he’s mine._ He didn't belong to Foggy, he belonged to the Centre and Ms. Sharpe's name was on his lease.  

If he had to belong to someone, he would prefer it to be Foggy, but even then, he was a state-ward on a lease.  Nothing was ever permanent. 

Matt made grilled cheese sandwiches for supper. They sat together at the kitchen table and ate in uncomfortable silence.

“I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you.”

Matt nodded, he knew Foggy wouldn’t willingly let anyone hurt him. “What is Ms. Sharpe planning?”

“You’re going to stay here with me, everything is going to be fine.”

Oh. So, it was true then, Ms. Sharpe was planning on taking him away. He knew Foggy wouldn’t give him up without a fight, but that didn’t mean the prospect didn’t scare him. Foggy got up and wiped the table and put the bread and butter and cheese away while Matt did the dishes.

“Is she going to let me keep going to school?”

"It's nothing, Matt, stop worrying about it. There's a reason I didn't want you to know. She just wants you to work for her office over summer holidays, but I am your supervisor, it's my job to worry about this kind of stuff,” Foggy explained finally. “I’ll talk to her, and we’ll work things out.”

Matt concentrated on the dishes. Rosalind wasn't planning on taking him away permanently, at least there was that. He listened to Foggy place a couple of glasses on the table. A bottle. Foggy twisted the cap open and the smell of red wine wafted through the room.

Alcohol was prohibited for wards.  Rules usually had to be followed carefully. 

There seemed to always be someone watching and ready to file a report.  The abolitionists reported on suspected abuses made by supervisors, and citizens reported on anything they deemed suspicious, frightened by the constant media coverage of violent and dangerous wards.

But here in their own apartment, where it was just the two of them, it was safe.

Foggy poured himself and Matt each a glass of wine.  He told Matt to go sit on the couch, joined him there with the glasses. “Go ahead, have some.”

Matt sniffed it first. He’d never had wine before. He took a small sip. It was fruity and bitter at the same time. He couldn’t exactly say he liked it, but he didn’t dislike it either.

“What do you think?”  Foggy asked. 

“Not bad.”  He took it slow but tried to keep pace with Foggy. By the end of just one glass, he was feeling kind of tingly.  He felt talkative.  He felt like laughing, and maybe a little bit like crying.  He placed his hand over the top of the glass when Foggy moved to refill it for him.  “That’s enough for me.” 

He could hear the way Foggy’s voice changed when he smiled.  “You doing okay, buddy?” 

Matt lied down, feeling a little spinny, and rested his head on Foggy’s lap.  “I like your new apartment.” 

“Our apartment.”  Foggy corrected as he gently pulled his fingers through Matt’s hair.

“Our apartment,”  Matt repeated. And yeah, he was feeling emotional.  Whatever happened, he knew Foggy would fight for him. He was safe.  And happy.  So, of course, he was terrified.  “You won’t let anyone take me away from you.”

“You’re stuck with me, buddy.”

“What kind of ward would you have chosen if I hadn’t been at the Centre?”  Matt asked.

Foggy sighed.  “Well.  He would have had to be blind.  Cause, you know I go for that.  And superpowers.  That’s a must.” 

Matt laughed.  “What were you looking for when you came across my listing?” 

“I was looking for you,”  Foggy answered.  “You already know this.” 

“It’s lucky I was there at the right time.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it. Matt, you and luck have never been on speaking terms.”  Foggy joked.

Matt waved his arm around him.  “I was at the Centre when you were looking for a ward. I was lucky.”  Matt said.  

“Is that what think?” 

“You didn’t want to be alone. I’m glad you chose me to be your friend.”

“I know how to make friends,”  Foggy retorted.  “The only motivation I’ve ever had to go to the Centre was to find one person.  Only you, Matt.”

“But if you couldn’t find me, or if I was leased to someone else at the time, what would you have done?”  Matt pressed.  What was he looking for?  For confirmation that his place at Foggy’s side was coincidental rather than deliberate?  For a way to pop the bubble of self-worth growing inside him?

“I wish I could have gotten you sooner. I was always looking for you, Matt.” 

“Why?”

“Because I promised you I would.” 

“That’s it?” 

“No.  I didn’t want to lose you. Thank you for waiting for me.”

“I wasn’t waiting.  I thought you were dead.” 

“But you survived.”

“I survived.” 

“Matt, do you know I love you?” 

“Foggy?” 

“Yeah?”

“I love you too,” Matt answered, and Foggy continued stroking his hair as he drifted off to sleep.

 


	51. Defense

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you TeeJay for the beta read!

Matt woke up on the couch, his head still on Foggy’s lap, and Foggy was sleeping sitting up, bent to the side and snoring quietly. He carefully extracted himself from Foggy’s hand resting on his shoulder and stood up, stretching, and listening.

A few streets over a car horn blared, vehicles stopped at a red light started moving. Not many of the yet, it was still very early. Other residents in the building were still snoring only one was up and moving around. He supposed he would learn the surrounding daily patterns soon enough, and he suspected it was still too early to wake up. He picked up the bottle of wine Foggy had left on the coffee table, capped it, put it in the fridge, and washed their glasses from the night before.

In the quiet he sat at the table, tracing his fingers along the scratched surface.

Foggy had insisted that having an apartment wasn’t going to change things, but how could it not? For better or worse, something was going to change. He knew he had to start earning his lease sooner or later, and he wanted to be useful. 

He wondered if Foggy would consider sub-letting him.

And then there was Rosalind. As much as Foggy told him not to worry, how could he not? He couldn’t just _not worry_ about the prospect of being taken away for three months. What if she decided he wasn’t good enough? Would she sell him?

There was no way he was falling back asleep with these thoughts in his head. Instead, he walked across the room, quietly opened the window and climbed out onto the fire escape. Thinking about the future was never easy, but that was always the first thing people wanted to know—what are your plans? He could only ever answer one thing; _my future is up to my leaseholder._

But, what do they intend to do with you?

_That is up to them._

They didn’t understand how difficult the question was. Leaseholders or supervisors rarely ever discussed their plans with their wards.

How could Matt even begin to think about seven years in the future when he couldn’t even be sure about three months? When every day, a thousand different things could happen to tear it all apart and change everything?

The thought of losing Foggy terrified him. He would give anything in exchange for the security of Foggy owning his lease permanently.

 _You mean,_ his inner voice reminded him, _you would give anything in return for being free._

What would he do if he was free? It didn’t matter. He was never going to get free. Why should he punish himself with what ifs?

“Matt?”

Matt jumped, he’d been too deep in his thoughts. Foggy was at the window, arms resting on the window frame, head leaning out.

Matt angled his head towards him. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“You didn’t,” Foggy said, passing Matt a cup of coffee and climbing outside with him. “How long have you been up?”

“I don’t know.” He took a sip of the coffee, Foggy had made it exactly the way he liked it. “Thanks.”

It disturbed him that he’d been so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he’d neither heard Foggy wake up nor smell the coffee brewing.

“You’re welcome. Did you have a nightmare?” 

“No,” he said. “Just thinking.

“I think I fell asleep shortly after you did. I didn’t feel like going through the hassle of getting up, inflating the air mattress and all of that. The couch is surprisingly comfortable.”

“It is.”

“Well, seeing as you’re up now, tell me something you are looking forward to today.”

“Foggy. No,” Matt sighed, “I don’t want to do this today.”

“Do it anyway.”

“Why is it that you told me I don’t have to obey you, but other times you insist that I do?” Matt asked instead.

“You know why.”

“I don’t.”

“This isn’t about me being your supervisor or about you being a ward. It’s about me being concerned for your mental health, and it scares the hell out of me that you’ve taught yourself not to look forward to anything. Just something small, okay? Like we’ve been practicing.”

“Coming back to the apartment at the end the day.”

“Not _the_ apartment, _our_ apartment.”

“Our apartment,” Matt repeated. “How many times are you going to insist on correcting me about that?”

“As many as I need to.” Foggy patted his arm and Matt leaned against him.

The traffic sounds were becoming denser. A neighbor’s alarm rang, and he heard a hand slapping against plastic, which made the buzzer stop. Five minutes later, it buzzed again.

…

“Scrambled eggs,” Matt called over to where Foggy was organizing his backpack for the day.

“I thought you said you were making over-easy?” Foggy called back.

Matt laughed in response. “I _was_ making over-easy. Now they’re scrambled,” he grinned and scooped half onto Foggy’s plate before serving himself and sitting down. He plucked a slice of toast off the plate in the middle of the table and took a bite as Foggy’s cell phone chimed with a new message. 

Foggy’s heart rate rose after picking up his cell phone. Apparently whatever he’d just read wasn’t good news.

“What’s happening?”

“There’s a demonstration by a new group of abolitionists in Boston. The Centre issued a caution.”

Matt paused with the fork halfway to his mouth. “Does that mean I need to stay home?”

“Not necessarily, but we’ll need to keep an eye on things, just in case. Would you rather stay home?”

Matt tapped his fork on the edge of the plate. “Boston is over two hundred miles away. I can’t hide every time something happens.”

“I’d understand if you did.”

“I don’t want to.”

Matt stayed close to Foggy’s side on the walk to the University, but he wasn’t wearing a collar, and his ID bracelet was carefully tucked beneath his long sleeved shirt. There was nothing about him that objectively identified him as Centre-dependent at first glance. Away from Campus, people didn’t immediately recognize him as that-ward-student; he was just another guy, just another student, and it felt good to be away from the scrutiny.

Things changed as they walked onto University grounds, though, and he could sense the attention. Or was it his imagination in overdrive? No. They had to walk past the ward-free “safe zone” the students had created around the fountain to get to their first class.

_“He’d better not come over here.”_

_“When the new collar laws pass, we’ll all be a lot safer.”_

He nudged Foggy to the far side of the sidewalk and pretended he couldn’t hear any of it.

…

It happened at the end of the day.

The room next to their last class had been undergoing renovations. Drywall dust, power sanders, nail guns. The noises didn’t seem to bother the rest of the class.

“Can’t you hear it?” he asked Foggy.

“Only in the background. How bad is it for you?”

“Distracting.” That it was all Matt responded. How did no one else feel all the dust in the room? It was all over the tables, making them gritty, in the air and up his nose and in his lungs. He could _feel_ it settling against his skin and on his clothes.

How did no one else notice?

Matt spent the entire class trying not to breathe. If he inhaled through his nose, he felt like he needed to sneeze. If he breathed in through his mouth, he could taste it and feel the dust in his throat.

By the end of the class, he felt nauseous and light-headed and he just wanted to go _home._ However, home was a fifteen-minute walk away through traffic, exhaust, and crowds of commuters. When Foggy informed him he needed to quickly check out the library to see if there was a particular book available, Matt jumped at the chance to just sit outside and simply breathe fresh air.

Ugh, and the damn dust was still all over him. In his hair, and in every one of his orifices. He swished water around in his mouth and spat, trying to get rid of the taste.  As soon as they got home, he was going to have a shower. A long, long shower.

For the time being, however, he found a shaded spot under a tree to sit down and pulled out his voice recorder to review the notes from the last class to catch up on everything he missed while obsessing over dust. He deliberately tuned out everything else in order to focus properly, and that was why, when the campus security officer pulled up and stopped close by about ten minutes later, he didn’t notice them until they were only ten feet away.

The man was standing in an aggressive posture, hands on his belt, feet shoulder- width apart. He could hear the man’s fingernail tapping against his metal baton.

His first thought was, _I need to call Foggy,_ and he reached into his backpack for his phone.

“Keep your hands where I can see them!” The officer yelled, and Matt jerked away. “Toss the bag this way.”

Matt gently tossed it a couple of feet away from himself. The officer knelt down, and turned it upside down. Matt’s textbooks, his slate and stylus, cell phone—everything fell into the grass. He heard the man’s hand reach inside, feel around to make sure everything was out. It was.

“Who is your supervisor?”

“Foggy—Franklin,” Matt corrected, “Nelson. Franklin Nelson. Please phone him. He’s in the library. I’m waiting for him; he’ll be right back.”

“Where’s your ID?”

Matt rolled up his sleeve, and flipped down the edge of his wrist protector. The one Foggy had gotten him for Christmas to keep the ID bracelet in place and from irritating his skin. He heard the officer write down the number.

“What have I done wrong?”

“Shut up and get over here. Sit, legs extended. Hands behind your back.”

Moving as non-threateningly as possibly, Matt crept forward and sat down as instructed, legs out, hands behind his back. The officer wrenched his arms further back and secured plastic ties tightly around his wrists.

“What did I do?” Matt asked again.

There was a long, tense pause.

“I’m a student,” Matt explained. “There’s an ID card in my back pocket.”

The officer patted Matt’s jeans, and Matt shifted to the side as his card was pulled from his pocket. He heard the pen scratching on paper again as he assumed his student number was being written down. A crowd was starting to form. Other students—watching. Matt felt embarrassed, ashamed.

“May I call my supervisor, please?” Matt asked again.

The security officer ignored him. He was on his own cell phone, making a call, Matt could hear the answering machine for the student services office. Of course it was the answering machine, office hours were over for the day. The officer hung up without leaving a message.

“What did he do?” another voice asked, feminine, Matt didn’t recognize her from any of his classes. She stepped closer.

“I’m following up on a complaint,” the officer explained to her. She stepped closer to Matt, and he tensed, feeling vulnerable.

“He’s a student here,” the woman commented. “I could see him from where I was sitting,” she pointed to the other side of the field. “He wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

Matt turned towards the woman's voice. “Please call my supervisor.” How many times did he need to beg before someone would listen?

“What’s his number?” the woman asked.

Matt told her, relieved to have finally found someone who would call Foggy. Foggy could fix this.

The officer stepped up beside him, grasping his upper arm and pulling him to his feet before dragging him towards his vehicle.

“Where are you taking me?” Matt asked.

“Wards exhibiting suspicious behavior on private property are to be reported to the Centre and brought in for questioning.”

Matt stumbled as a hand grabbed his other arm and tugged him to a stop. “He wasn’t being suspicious, he already told you he was waiting for his supervisor.” Still holding his arm, the woman stepped between him and the security officer. Her voice was defiant. “Let him go.”

No, no, no. He couldn’t be involved in this. She hadn’t gotten around to calling Foggy yet. If she would let him go and call Foggy, Foggy would come and he would make things right before anything could get out of hand. Resisting an officer in front of witnesses was going to make things so much worse.

The only option he could think of to demonstrate that he wasn’t a threat to anyone was to drop to his knees.

The movement managed to break the hold the security officer had on him. He heard the baton get withdrawn from the officer’s belt.

No, no, no, no.

“Please call my supervisor,” Matt repeated, but no one was listening.

The woman was now resolutely standing between him and the officer. “The Ward is a student here. You have no right to detain him.”

Another set of steps drew close, stepping up beside him and Matt tensed, worried about how much worse things could get if a full out argument started.

Other footsteps came closer. More students—he heard backpacks drop to the ground beside the sidewalk. Running shoes on grass.

Surprisingly, none of them stood with the officer. They stood with the woman. _They stood with Matt!_

“He wasn’t doing anything wrong, back off.” A young man’s voice. There were now five students in total standing between him and the security officer.

More joined. Seven. Eight. Eleven students were standing around him; _d_ _efending him._

From the distance he heard Foggy call his name. Foggy was running, Matt heard the thump of Foggy's backpack hit the ground as Foggy discarded it in the field in order to run faster. He got closer, out of breath, heart racing. “This is my ward. What’s going on?”

The security officer placed the baton back on his belt. “I got complaints about a ward loitering and acting suspicious on campus property.”

“He was waiting for me. I told him to wait.” Foggy stepped closer, joining the other students.

“He acted aggressively.”

The woman standing in front of Matt laughed. “All he did was ask you why you were harassing him. Even wards have that right, don’t they?”

The officer’s voice was even more surly. “I will be filing a report. Make sure you keep your ward under control in the future.” He stepped away and returned to his vehicle. No one moved until the car pulled away.

“Holy shit,” a student said. A couple of them laughed nervously. “What the hell was that about?”

“Are you okay?” the woman asked.

Matt nodded. He stayed on the ground, feeling light-headed and shaky.

_They defended him._

“Does anyone have scissors or a knife?” Foggy asked, and Matt heard someone reach into a backpack.

And then Foggy was kneeling behind him, he felt cold metal against his wrists, the snap of the plastic being cut. Matt didn't have the focus to keep track of the people around him, but someone ran off and brought back the bag Foggy had dropped while running. Some of the students went over to where his backpack had been dumped on the ground,  picking up his things, putting them back into his bag, closing the zipper.

_They defended him._

Foggy collected names and numbers—if there was going to be a report filed, he needed witnesses on his side. People who could make a statement that Matt hadn’t acted violently, hadn’t resisted.  Matt stayed where he was, listening to the names. He recognised one classmate, the rest were people whose voices he couldn’t place, they’d never met.

He listened to Foggy say thank-you to the students that were still around. How many, Matt wasn’t sure; everything felt unreal.

A hand pressed down on his shoulder. “Are you ready to go?” Foggy asked. He gripped Matt’s arm, urging him to stand up.

Matt stood, feeling numb.

Foggy picked up the backpack, passed it to him, and Matt shrugged the straps back onto his shoulders.

The woman was still there. He could tell now, the way the air moved around him, the sound of her hair on her shoulders, she was kind of short, long hair. Her heart was still beating fast, she was angry, her attention was on Foggy. “Take better care of your ward,” she said.

Matt wanted to tell her it wasn’t Foggy’s fault. Foggy was a good supervisor, all of it was Matt's fault. He should have known better than to think he’d be okay on his own. But he said nothing and she walked away.

“Matt?” Foggy stood, facing him, his hands on his shoulders. “Are you with me?”

Matt nodded, and Foggy took him home.


	52. Calm Before the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you tee-jay for the beta read!

Matt had been in somewhat of a daze on the way home after the incident on campus. He was dimly aware of Foggy’s hand on his arm, guiding him. He held his cane with his other hand in the correct position to detect curbs or direct obstacles but otherwise didn’t bother using it, trusting Foggy completely.

_They defended him._

It had been startling. He’d thought for sure the situation was going to escalate, that the interference of the other students would translate to being detained for resisting arrest even though he hadn’t done anything wrong.

Eleven students. Now that the immediate threat had passed, he let that sink in. Even if things had escalated, it would have meant something. Eleven students got in between him and the campus security officer. They stepped in. With the protests and petitions on campus trying to get him expelled or forced to wear a correction collar, Matt had been under the impression that even those who weren’t directly opposed to him didn’t care.

But eleven students put themselves in harm’s way, they all gave Foggy their names to later testify on his behalf if necessary. And it had all started with just one person, not even a student, who stepped in to take a stand. The example of one person brought ten more forward.

One person can make a difference. _If they took a stand._

“Matt?” Foggy stopped on the sidewalk. “Are you okay?”

Matt nodded.

Back at the apartment, Foggy locked the door behind them. Matt dropped his backpack on the floor and went directly to the couch to sit down while Foggy brought him a glass of lemonade, and Matt thought distantly, _I should be the one serving him, not the other way around._

But no. This was how it was. Foggy didn’t treat him as less of a human being because of his status. Foggy respected him as an equal and as a friend. Whatever inequality existed in their relationship, Matt realized, originated from himself. Matt was the only one who believed he was less than Foggy, he was the one who kept assuming he was too much trouble, and that one day soon, Foggy was going to give up on him and send him away.

No wonder Foggy got so pissed off at him when they’d been looking at apartments and Matt had disengaged and refused to participate. There were so many things Foggy did for him that a person didn’t normally have to do for a friend, but Foggy did them out of friendship, not ownership.

He reached out and caught Foggy’s hand, pulling him down to sit on the couch beside him. He wanted to explain to Foggy everything he was thinking. _We’re partners, and from here on, I’m going to make the effort to be a better partner to you,_ Matt thought, but he didn’t say it. He brought Foggy’s arm up and around his shoulders and leaned into Foggy’s side, resting his head on Foggy’s shoulder, and said nothing. Foggy sat still, his hand resting on Matt’s other shoulder and whispered, “Everything is going to be okay.”

…

The security officer never filed a report.

They waited, checked Matt’s profile on the Centre website more than once a day.

What would another reprimand on his record mean to Ms. Sharpe? She already thought Matt was dragging Foggy down, Matt didn’t need to give her more reasons to disapprove of him. Foggy needed him by his side, his next appointment with the research facility was coming up a couple of weeks after exams, and more than anything, Matt wanted to be there to support him and take care of him in whatever way he could.

He couldn’t do that if Foggy’s birth mother took him away for the summer. At least Foggy wasn’t trying to hide her emails from him anymore.

Everything was moving so fast; exams would be in a month, they were already using all their spare time to study. Summer was just around the corner.

"We need a plan," Foggy said.

Matt laughed. "What kind of plan do you think we need? It’s not like I don’t remember how to kneel and recite the Centre tenets.”

“Have you ever worked with other wards before?”

“You know I have.”

“No, I mean, really worked with anyone? At the hospital you worked alone, and you told me you were singled out and isolated from the other wards in the laundry factory, and after that, you were alone in your two placements. Seriously, Matt, we need a strategy.”

Matt sighed. “Whatever happened to ‘ _don’t worry, I’ll handle this’?_ ”

Foggy paced the living room. “You know I’ll do everything I can.”

“Yeah, I know,” Matt agreed tiredly. “I’m aware of everything you do to try and keep me safe, but maybe this time it won’t be enough.”

“We need a plan, just in case.”

“You’ve clearly been thinking about it. What are our options?”

Foggy sighed, he opened the fridge door and a couple of bottles clanked together. “Well, since the truth that you’re a human being deserving of respect doesn’t seem to be a viable option, what about the opposite?”

That sounded ominous. Matt accepted the beer Foggy passed to him before sitting down at his side. “You want to go with a plan that involves me not being a human being deserving of respect?” He didn’t even bother to try and hide the sarcasm from his voice.

“Just hear me out. I’m supposed to be training you to work with me in the future, right?”

“It’s the truth.”

“Exactly, so how about we build on that? That I’m using a unique training program, and I’m afraid that putting you in the care of another supervisor would risk undoing all the work I’ve put into you so far.”

Matt laughed. “You mean like how you are defying everything typical supervisors do and try to make me act like a regular person?” He held up his beer, case in point.

Even Matt could sense the expression on Foggy’s face as he winced. “That’s not…”

“I’m kidding. I know what you’re trying to do for me.” Matt reached out and patted Foggy’s leg to soften his words. “And I appreciate it.”

Foggy nodded, his hair rubbing against his shoulders and collar. “We could say due to your past trauma I’m the only person you are able to work with and trust.”

That wasn’t a lie; Foggy _was_ the only person he trusted. “Do you think it will work?”

“I don’t know,” Foggy admitted.

Matt took another sip of his beer.

…

Matt paced the living room. Something wasn’t right. Nothing terrible had happened for an entire week.

The inspector from the Centre had finally come, he’d measured Matt’s ‘closet-space’, deemed the apartment acceptable and moved on.

The campus security officer still hadn’t filed a report, and Foggy felt fairly confident by now that he wouldn’t.

The apartment was turning out to be a positive change. Matt liked his new futon-bed. He loved that they had better access to a kitchen and could cook and stay home for more meals. He liked that everyone in the apartment complex thus far was too busy with their own lives to care that he was a state-dependant ward.

Studying for exams was going well. Matt felt confident going into his tests.

Something terrible was bound to happen soon. Matt could feel it.

The evaluation by Ms. Sharpe’s ward-supervisors was coming up, and that definitely had the potential of going badly. Not that Matt wanted horrible things to happen. Foggy still had him naming something to look forward to each morning, but even that was difficult. It felt like he was putting a bullseye on himself for the universe to narrow in on. _Hey—look how well things are going, come get me._

“You need to relax. Of all the things for you to be stressed out about, having good days should not be one of them.”

Maybe Foggy was right. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Why not go for a run? Get some exercise, you used to love going out.”

“You don’t mind?”

Foggy sighed in relief. “Go. Please. The world isn’t going to end in the next couple of hours.”

And so Matt went, he ran straight to the skate park, intent on wearing himself out as much as possible in as little time as possible. It had been months since he ‘d practiced, and he was rusty at some of the flips he wanted to do. The moves he fumbled he repeated until he was satisfied with the result, and he would have stayed out longer but he worried about Foggy. When he came back, the apartment and Foggy was still in one piece.

He did the same the next night, and the night after that, forming a new routine. He tried not to listen to the rest of the world around him. It was difficult being alert and yet closing himself off at the same time, but it wasn’t impossible. Matt minded his own business while he was outside and grit his teeth when he did hear things. Mostly. There might have been a mugger that he distracted from robbing an elderly couple, and someone trying to break into a car that he scared off, but nothing more dangerous than that.

…

As the days passed, Matt started to gain more confidence. Maybe Foggy was right, maybe he was worried for nothing. Maybe things would turn out okay.

Often, he took different routes on his nightly runs to better explore the neighborhood. Rooftops, alleys, abandoned buildings. Those were the places he gravitated to the most, where there were the fewest number of people. He followed the lanes further out, exploring west this time.

Bakeries, meat shops, clothing stores, a laundromat. A night club.

He stopped. Loud music pounded out of the building to his left. The back door was open, hot air and smells wafting up and out from within.

He stopped short. The smell. Sweat and sex and something else. Leather? He stepped closer. The underlying smell of incense. The mixture of it was distinct. Why did it feel familiar?

Someone walked past within, dangerously close. Matt stumbled back in surprise, tripping on something metal that clattered loudly as it fell to the ground. Voices from inside, yelling, demanding to know who was out there. Matt pushed himself back up to his feet and ran not even conscious of where he was headed until he was back to the apartment, back _home_.

Foggy was on the couch, the pages of his paperback novel swishing as he turned the page, and he crawled in through the window. Matt closed the window, locked it, and sat with his back against the wall, soaking up the warmth and security of being inside. With Foggy. Safe.

And then Foggy was crouched in front of him, his hand on his knee. Talking. Matt hadn’t even realized Foggy had moved until he felt his hand on his shoulder.

“I said, are you okay? What happened?”

“I'm all right,” he said, but he wasn’t. He wasn’t all right, and he didn’t know why. What was the smell he recognized? Why had it affected him so badly? Why did he feel so _helpless?_ He reached out and took Foggy’s hand on his shoulder and surged forward, hugging him, holding on tight.

“Were you in a fight?”

“No. No, nothing like that.”

Foggy hovered around him for the rest of the evening, not venturing far from his side. Matt knew Foggy was worried, but he didn’t know how to explain what happened and every time he tried the words stuck in his throat.

It took a long time to fall asleep that night, finally to be lulled to sleep by the familiar and comforting rhythm of Foggy’s snoring.

And he dreamed.

_He had no hands, there was a door that he couldn’t open, but everyone else could. He wanted to run away but there was nowhere to go. The room was small and he was trapped, hands grabbed him and he wanted to fight, he wanted to, but he didn’t because he’d lose like so many times before. There was no way to win, no way to save himself. He was on his back, he couldn’t move, and there were hands on him touching, hurting, the air was thick, stifling, smelling like—_

“Matt!”

Matt sat up, his chest hurt and he couldn’t breathe. Someone was touching him and he needed to get away, scrambling backward and up and over and off the futon and onto the floor.

_“Matt!”_

_Foggy’s voice._ “Foggy?”

“You back with me?” Foggy asked.

His senses lurched, and he was back again in their apartment, with Foggy. He was safe and he wasn’t tied down, no one was touching or hurting. “I think so...” Matt sat up.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“I had a nightmare,” Matt answered. “Did I hurt you?”

“No. Are you okay? You fell and landed kind of weird, what’s wrong?”

“It was just a nightmare.”

“Didn’t look like ‘ _just_ a nightmare’ to me. Can you tell me what it was about?”

Matt made a fist over and over again, moving his fingers because his hands felt stiff and sore and not right. “I don’t— I don’t know. I don’t remember.” But that was a lie; he remembered everything. He had dreamed about his last placement, the scent filling his nose and his brain, overriding everything else until he felt like he couldn’t even inhale.

But then Foggy was there again, his hand on his shoulder. “Matt, take a breath,” he ordered. “Easy now.”

He obeyed and tried sucking in air but it hurt, and Foggy’s hand wrapped around his arm, pulling him close. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. It's okay, I can see it was a bad one,” Foggy whispered, and Matt shivered. “If you ever want to talk about it I’m here, okay? Any time. You're all right.”

He remembered all of it, and he wasn’t ready to tell Foggy about any of it. Instead, he said, “I’m sorry I woke you.”

“Hey, we take care of each other, right?”

Matt nodded and assured Foggy again that he was fine. He showered first, and then returned to the bedroom, and instead of crawling into his own bed, he picked up his pillow and placed it on the bed next to Foggy to lie down beside him.

…

“Do you believe in fate?” Matt asked the next morning.

“Nope,” Foggy answered from the table, waiting as Matt made eggs in the frying pan.

Matt was trying yet again to make them over easy, but one was already scrambled. He carefully, carefully slid the spatula under and flipped. “Did I do it right?” he called over to Foggy, it wasn’t like he could hear or smell the yoke break.

Foggy came over to peek. “Congratulations, you’ve got one perfectly flipped egg.”

Matt grinned and scraped the other unintentionally scrambled egg onto a plate. “Which one do you want?”

“Scrambled.”

“You’re sure?”

“It’s all egg, Matt.” Foggy laughed and plucked the toast out of the toaster, spreading butter on top and placing a slice on each of their plates.

Getting the unbroken egg out of the pan was the easiest part, and Matt happily ate his toast dipped in perfect over easy egg.

“Do you think we are meant to experience certain things in our lives?” Matt asked.

“Where this is coming from? Does this have anything to do with why you came home freaked out last night? What the hell happened out there?”

Matt just shrugged.

“Your life is what you make of it, not matter what happens. Do you think I deserved to get sick with cancer?”

“Of course not.”

“You didn’t deserve what happened to you, Matt.”

“But—” he started, only to have Foggy interrupt him again.

“Seriously, I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me. What happened last night?”

“I recognised a scent.”

“What kind of scent?”

Matt sighed. “I don’t know. It triggered a memory, but it was probably nothing.”

Still, he couldn’t stop thinking about the nightclub. He didn’t even know where it was, but all he’d have to do was retrace his steps from last night and he was sure he could find again. But that would have to wait. He couldn’t safely go back out alone until after dark, and that left him with the whole day to think about it.

Time inched forward incredibly slow. He needed to go back. He needed to be sure it was the same smell that he remembered, and he waited impatiently for the air to grow colder, signifying sundown.

“Where are you going tonight?” Foggy asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You’re going back to what had you scared last night, aren’t you? I know that look, Matt. It’s your determined look.”

“Foggy,” Matt started, but Foggy interrupted him.

“I’m coming with you.”

“No,” Matt answered resolutely. “You’re right, I’m going back, but I don’t even know what I’m looking for. I’ll be careful.”

“Do you have your cell phone?”

Matt held it up before shoving it back into his pocket. “I won’t be late,” he said and crawled out through their fire escape window.

It was only ten minutes away, and easier to find than he’d expected. Matt climbed up onto the roof this time, walking the circumference of the club. The music was too loud to hear much of what was taking place inside, but the smell was everywhere. It was the same. The same scent he remembered on his former leaseholders. He found a hidden spot close to the front entrance, listening to the voices coming and going. Listening for two voices in particular.

He didn’t hear them.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him. The past was the past, he needed to move on.

The story was quickly told when he got back home; he told Foggy everything. He explained that he’d smelled something similar to something he remembered at his last placement and that it had brought back bad memories, but it was just a figment of his imagination.

The incident wouldn’t let go of Matt’s brain. He couldn’t resist the urge to return night after night, each time promising himself, this time, would be the last; just once more. His former leaseholders were long gone; they were wanted by the police, why would they hang out at a nightclub they used to frequent? And what would he do if he heard them?

But then he recognized another voice. It was one of his former leaseholders, he knew it—a woman’s voice talking to a female companion as she walked up to the entrance.

Those memories started to bubble to the surface, and he quickly stamped them back down and whispered Foggy’s tenets to drive them away. He was in a good situation now, the past was past, and he didn’t have to be afraid of it.

The deep bass speakers enveloped her as she entered the building, and he quickly lost track of her movements. He should leave it alone and move on, he needed to concentrate on the life Foggy was making for him.

His evaluation was coming up, he needed to stay focused and present. He needed to impress Ms. Sharpe’s ward supervisors, show them that he didn’t need additional training to be valuable to Foggy.

And yet, he kept going back to the club.

After recognizing the woman’s voice, in the following week he identified three more voices of people who had been her clients. That couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?

He needed to know what was going on inside, he couldn’t wait any longer. His evaluation was at the end of the week, and who knew what was going to happen after that. Foggy said it was just an interview, the team of supervisors wanted to meet him, but how could he be sure? What if they decided not to let him go home? He needed to act now.

The music from the club below overwhelmed his senses. What if there were other wards in there being abused they way _they_ had done to him? He could report it to the police. He could do something; help save someone. But to do that, he needed to go inside and check it out first. The alley was quiet. The back door was open. Matt chose his steps carefully.

It wasn’t a good idea, he knew that. His senses were dulled by the constant booming noise within, the vibration of the sound waves and the smell that reminded him of so many terrible things. But all he needed to do was quickly go in and out and make sure there was nothing terrible going on inside. He could do that and return to Foggy. It would be okay.

He stepped inside. He could still sense enough to find his way around. He followed the hall, the smell he recognized from his former leaseholders came from a stairway leading down into the basement. That was where he needed to go. His heart pounded as he took the first step down.

A hallway lined with doors and small rooms stretched out at the bottom of the stairs. The music upstairs continued to disrupt his hearing and everything from inside the rooms seemed quiet and the doors were all locked. All but one. He stood and placed his hand on the door, focusing intently on sifting through the noise to hear what was going on within, letting the sounds tell their story.

One person. Quick breathing. Scared? Moving slowly… a scraping noise, like metal on metal.

He was concentrating so hard on the room that he missed the other sounds until they were right behind him. Footsteps.

_“Hey, asshole.”_

Fuck. Two men behind him, the smell of gunpowder and metal. Matt ran.


	53. Frying Pan

 

_Two men behind him, the smell of gunpowder and metal. Matt ran. He made it to the end of the hall, turned to the left and stopped just in time to avoid running into three more guards. Hands grabbed his arms, dragging and pushing, legs pushing at his ankles trying to push his feet out from under him and force him to the ground._

_No._

_This wasn’t happening._

_Matt fought with everything he had in him because he knew what this place was and he knew what would happen to him if they got a hold of him again. He couldn't... he couldn't let them do that to him again._

_But it isn't a matter of letting anyone do anything._

_He twisted, momentarily freeing one arm, lashing out, smelling blood as he heard the crack of bone and cartilage… but he was down again. They were on top of him, holding him down, pressing down with their body weight._

_He couldn’t, there were too many, the space was too small, the loud music hampered his senses. Hands gripped his shirt, twisting, pulling. A knee pressed down on his back, his arms were wrenched behind him, he could hear the plastic ties they slipped over his wrists, the clicking of the plastic teeth as they were pulled closed, the edges cutting into his skin. Voices yelling, “Who are you, what are you doing here.”_

 

…

 

Foggy fell asleep on the couch while waiting for Matt to come home. It wasn’t unusual for Matt to come home late. These were the only times Matt could really feel free. Free from having to pretend he didn't have extra senses compensating for his lack of vision, free from being subjected to the humility of how people treated him like less every day because of his ward status. 

Even with his own experiences in the medical research facility and knowing what it was like to be a prisoner of a system that doesn't recognize you as an independent person, he found it impossible to relate to what Matt must go through every day. 

So, on the nights when Matt didn’t come home on time Foggy wasn’t surprised and he generally didn't worry. Matt always came home. Foggy tried to stay awake by watching YouTube… top five fails of the month… alien encounters caught on tape… mysterious creatures found washed up on beaches.

But, he always fell asleep.  He always ended up passed out on the couch, and Matt would come home, wake him up, guide him to bed, then shower and come to bed as well. That was how it worked.

The buzzer went off at eight am, waking Foggy with a start and he sat up on the couch. Why didn’t Matt wake him up?

Rain pounded against the window pane, drowning out the usual traffic noises outside.

“Matt?” Foggy called out.

Nothing.

What Foggy saw, or rather didn’t see, sent him into a panic. Matt’s shoes weren’t by the door. Matt’s jacket wasn’t on the hook. The bedroom was empty, the beds untouched. The bathroom was empty, not even a towel to show Matt had come home to have a shower.

He tried to find a logical explanation… maybe Matt had stepped out to do laundry? The laundry basket was exactly where it was supposed to be. Untouched since the day before.

Matt hadn’t come home.

 _Shitshitshit._ No. This wasn’t happening.

It had to be the rain. Matt had found cover somewhere and was waiting out the storm before coming home. What were Matt’s senses like in the rain? 

But, he would have phoned. Foggy’s phone had no messages, no text alerts. Matt always called if he was going to be later than usual or if something out of the ordinary happened.

Was he hurt? Maybe he got caught by the Centre or the police? Did he get into a fight he couldn’t win?

It didn’t help to call Matt’s cell phone; it went straight to voicemail. Maybe… maybe Matt lost track of time, and his battery was dead? That must be it. He would come home any second. There was no reason to worry.

The teen tracker app Foggy had installed on Matt’s phone was still running; Foggy turned that on… the last ping had been just after midnight. The same place Matt had been returning to every night, the place where he’d smelled something that startled him so badly he’d suffered nightmares every night since.

Fuck. That didn’t have to mean anything. It didn’t mean Matt was in trouble.

Matt never turned his phone off while he was out. He knew how important it was to let Foggy monitor where he was.

“Dammit Matt,” Foggy cursed and stood up, running a hand through his hair before tying it back with an elastic. He grabbed his shoes and a jacket and rushed out the door into the rain, heading straight to Matt’s last location. It was only a few blocks away, but in the morning rain and with a brick of dread resting heavy in the pit of his stomach it felt like miles. Club 88. A non-descript building beside a factory. No one on the streets for the entire block. What had he been expecting? Did he think Matt would be standing in the street waiting for him? There was nothing. No clues. Why couldn't it be like a mystery novel where there would be clues like wayward buttons from Matt’s jacket to be left like breadcrumbs? _Nothing_. He tried the door, locked.

He tried dialing Matt’s number again. _Nothing_ happened. Calling out Matt’s name yielded similar results, _nothing_ , the only sound to be heard was the steady pounding of the rain.

But, maybe he was just an idiot and over reacting. Right now, while Foggy was outside shivering in the rain, Matt was probably having a hot shower and getting ready to take a nap.

He had to be.

Going home to an empty apartment was out of the question.

He checked his phone at least once every minute for a text message from Matt or an email from the Centre saying that Matt had been picked up in the night and detained.

 _Nothing_. Still _nothing_.

He spent all morning walking the back lanes calling Matt’s name.

_Nothing._

Matt had to be home by now. It was all just a mix-up; Foggy would get home and find Matt safe, and they’d have a good laugh about it. Matt probably just didn’t realize how worried Foggy would be. Foggy would remind Matt how important it was to keep his phone on, tell him to phone or text if he knew he was going to be later than usual coming home. Everything would be alright.

But when he got home the apartment was empty. The beds still untouched. No Matt anywhere.

He didn’t know what to do. Should he report Matt missing? Calling in a missing ward to the Centre was not going to end well, especially not with Matt’s history of running away.  

But Matt hadn’t run away; he was missing, possibly hurt or in danger. Violence against wards wasn’t a new thing, and it was on the rise since the recent protests. At least someone would be looking for him.

There were other places he could call first, though, just to be sure. He dialed the number and waited for the line to be answered. “May I speak to Sister Catherine, please.”

She took the call, but as soon as she knew who was she went silent. “Please don’t hang up,” Foggy pleaded.

_“Why shouldn’t I?”_

“Matt’s missing.”

_“So, you lost track of your slave, what does that have to do with me?”_

“Don’t call him that. He went out for a walk last night and didn’t come home. Have you seen or heard from him?”

 _“No.”_  

Foggy didn’t believe Matt would run from him, not like this, not without saying goodbye or giving any indication, but he needed to try. “I need to call the Centre and report him missing. You understand that, right? If he gets found and I haven't reported anything, they could take him away from me. So, if you know where he is, or if you know anything, just, please, I need to know if he’s safe.”

Her voice softened. _“I haven’t heard from Matthew since he came here with you.”_

"If you see or hear from him, will you let me know?”

Her voice softened, _“I can’t condone the system you’re a part of.”_

“I’m not asking you to. I just need to find Matt.”

_“Call me when you find him? Let me know he’s alright, please?”_

Foggy said he would and hung up the phone. He waited five more minutes just in case, _dammit Matt where are you_ , and then he called the Centre. It went as he expected. They told him an agent would be dispatched to investigate. He was officially entered into the system as a runaway.

Fuck.  

And then he called Rosalind.

 

 

 


	54. Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings... horribleness within. Bad things.  
> But the bad things don't last.

It took a moment for reality to hit him. He was- Matt immediately began struggling, oh god, he was back _there._  He needed to escape. He needed to go home. The leather restraints had no give to them, placed so that he couldn’t get to the buckles, he couldn’t-

There were restraints on his wrists and ankles, his clothing gone, he was in a closed room on a vinyl mattress. The smells of mold and old sex overpowered everything.

He struggled until he bled, he couldn’t- he wouldn't go back to this, this couldn’t be happening to him again.

They left him alone; Matt could hear footsteps in the hallway, he could hear someone in another room crying. When he focused, he could differentiate between five different sets of footfalls. They were all different shoe types and the resonance of their steps setting them clearly apart. Everyone walked by his door without stopping or slowing down. They were giving him time to wear himself out.  To get hungry and thirsty and let the fear sink in.

By now, he knew, they would know who he was. With his ID bracelet, it was a simple search on the Centre website to find his profile. And then, he realized the absence of the metal on his wrist. He twisted his arm and still felt nothing. Did they remove his bracelet? The realization made him shudder, they removed his ID, they weren’t planning on letting him go, of course they weren't. He needed to escape. Even if it was back to the Centre, he needed to get out of here. 

New footsteps in the hall. Tapping, the double click of high heels, stopping outside his door.

The scrape of the bolt scratching against metal. The door opened, and a woman entered.

“Hello Matthew,” she cooed, and it sounded like she was smiling. She walked closer, and Matt flinched as she stroked his forehead. “Oh sweetheart, just like old times. I told him we should have brought you with us, that it was a waste to leave you behind,” she said, and she held the water bottle up to his lips.

He kept his mouth shut. He couldn’t fight her like this, but he didn’t have to be obedient. _Not yet._

She let the water pour onto his face, he coughed turning his head as it went into his nose, and she laughed.

“Oh, baby. Look how you’ve forgotten your lessons. Has your new leaseholder been trying to rehabilitate you?  But I promise, it will be just like riding a bicycle, once we begin your training again you’ll remember what you are.” 

He remembered everything. He remembered she was the one with the bleach. The one who stroked his hair and ‘soothed’ him as he was tied down and screaming when they burned his eyes as a punishment. To make him _look_ blind so that their customers would feel more at ease knowing they could do whatever they wanted to do and never be identified.

She opened a small bag, a purse, and pulled out a thin glass vial with liquid inside. She wrapped her hand around Matt’s wrist, and he felt a painful stab on the inside of his arm. “Shh, everything is going to be okay. I’m going to take good care of you.”

She sat with him, petting his hair gently as though she didn’t intend to hurt him as he grew disoriented and the room started spinning.

Time turned into circles of dizziness and confusion. There were bits and pieces of things he remembered. He remembered the scent of the woman coming and going from the room, her hands gentle until they weren’t. Trying to breathe and his throat was raw from screaming.  And he remembered how it seemed to go on and on and never stop.

But drugs don’t last forever, and the confusion didn’t last. He felt torn and used and filthy and cold, he couldn’t stop shivering. He didn’t know how long he’d been there or how many times they drugged him.  He began to doubt that the last nine months with Foggy had ever happened, that he never left his old lease holders, and nothing had changed, that Foggy was a dream and only now he was waking up.

Was any of it real?

Everything was silent. The music above had stopped playing, and it sounded like the others were sleeping or unconscious, or just quiet.

More footsteps in the hall, this time, lighter, quicker. Pausing often outside of the doors but not opening any of them. Not until they came to his door, and Matt tensed as the silence wore on. There was a noise of, not a key, but something being forced and snapped, the handle turned.

It was no one he recognized. Matt stayed quiet and still, tense.

The person, female, quietly closed the door behind him. “Matthew, state-ward to Rosalind Sharpe?”

“Y-yes?” 

She quickly crossed the room, “You have no ID bracelet.”

“They took it,” Matt whispered. “They took everything.”

The woman worked at the buckles around Matt’s wrists and ankles. When Matt rubbed his wrists they were scraped raw and bloody from pulling on the restraints, and he still could not stop shivering.

“I’m a private investigator. Your leaseholder, Ms. Sharpe, contracted me to find you. I’m here bring you back to the Centre.” 

He never thought he would be thankful to be delivered back to the Centre, but anywhere was better than here.

“We need to get moving. Can you walk?” 

Matt sat up slowly, feeling dizzy. Everything hurt to move. His knee and his shoulder hurt the most, but he didn’t care. “How long have I been missing?”

“Three days,” the woman answered. “My name is Jones.”

He felt like he was about to be sick. “Is Foggy okay?”

She grabbed his arm at the elbow and pulled him to his feet without any effort at all, and then pulled him toward the door.  “We don’t have time for this. Any idea what they did with your stuff?”

“My clothes, ID, and Foggy’s cellphone,” he said and took a moment to lean against the wall for support. He couldn’t focus. Even without the music booming upstairs, his head throbbed and he couldn't sense his surroundings. The drugs? Or stress or lack of sleep or lack of food? Maybe all those things together.  

“Ms. Sharpe doesn’t want you associated with this place. We need to erase the fact you’ve been here.”

“But there are other people here; you need to call the police.”

Jones grabbed his arm again. “Calm down. They will. She wants to avoid getting her name into this; having a state-ward run away to join a sex ring, not good publicity for her firm or her reputation as a leaseholder.”

“I didn’t run away.”

“I know you didn’t, but truth and what people think they know don’t go hand in hand.” She slowly opened the door and looked out into the hall, then grabbed his upper arm again and pulled him with her. “And you need some clothes. Fuck, these assholes are something else. Any idea where your stuff is?” 

Matt thought about it, before the drugs, he remembered hearing one room in particular that got used more than the others, talking and- “Yes. Yes, three doors down and to the left.”

The hall was quiet, and she continued pulling him along until they reached the door he’d indicated. “You’re sure?”

“No.”

She grabbed the handle and gave it a quick turn, and Matt heard things breaking inside the mechanism again, the door swung open slowly, there was no one inside. But it was an office. Another tug on his arm and she pulled him into the room, shutting the door behind them. She released him abruptly, heading for the desk, opening drawers and dumping the contents, quickly searching. She upended the garbage can, and he heard the metallic clink of his bracelet hit the floor.

“There,” Matt pointed.

Jones paused a moment, staring at him. “How?”

“I heard it, it’s not that difficult if you know what to listen for,” he answered and ended up sitting down on the floor as a wave of dizziness washed over him.

She grabbed the bracelet and shoved it in her pocket. 

“My phone.” Matt reminded her.

She turned and went back to the desk to keep looking, and then he heard it, the tapping of high heels in the hall. “She’s coming.”

Jones grabbed his arm again, half dragging him behind the desk. There was no hiding the mess she’d made of the office, but she turned out the light and stood just beside the door, waiting. The woman hesitated when she discovered the lock broken, but she hadn't gotten as far as she had by being timid. She let the door swing open. Waiting in the hall to assess the- Jones grabbed her hand and hauled her inside, holding her from behind with her elbow over her throat. “Where’s do you keep the stuff you take from your victims?” 

Matt listed as the woman struggled futilely. Jones wasn’t a large person, but she was strong. Far too strong. He listened as a bone snapped in the woman’s wrist? Her scream was muffled by a hand over her mouth. “Don’t make me repeat myself.” 

“In the closet. There’s a box.”  The woman whispered.

Jones increased the pressure on the woman’s neck until she passed out and then dropped her on the floor. The closet was on the other side of the room, that was locked too, but she tugged on the door, ripping it off its hinges. The woman hadn't lied, there was a box inside and Jones dumped it on the floor and Matt heard his cell phone hit the ground. "My phone is the one with the purple case." He came out from behind the desk and picked it up just as Jones took it from his hand. 

There was clothing inside as well. He found sweat pants and a t-shirt, and it wasn't his but it would fit. He quickly pulled them on while Jones sifted through the rest of the stuff.

While she was occupied, he moved over towards the woman, sitting beside her as she lay unconscious. He placed his hand on her throat. Gently at first, and then increasing the pressure. “I remember everything you did to me,” he said, pressing harder until he heard her choke… _it would be so easy._

Jones grabbed him and pulled him away. “No. Leave her for the police.” She held onto him securely, her arm wrapped around his back, pulling him up. 

Did she think he was going to kill the woman? He wasn’t- at least, he didn’t think he was going to. Jones made a quick call, telling the person on the other end that she was ready and had the package. She hauled Matt forward. “I have a friend who is going to make a diversion; the hall should be clear for us. All we need to do from here is get outside, and we’re home free.” 

He could hear something happening in the distance, people yelling and what sounded like popping. Gunfire?

Jones pulled him forward again, through the hall and up the stairs and outside. They met no one else along the way, and a car was waiting in the alley. 


	55. Waiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks tj_teejay for the help with this chapter!

Foggy told Rosalind as much as he was able. He told her Matt liked to go for walks at night, and that he let him, and that he carried a cell phone so that he could call for help if anything happened.

He didn’t tell her that he knew Matt had been keeping an eye on the club where he’d recognized a smell that had given him a flashback of his previous placement. He didn’t explain how he knew Matt sometimes actively sought out trouble and made horrible self-destructive decisions. And he took a deep breath because he didn’t want to be mad at Matt. If he were in a similar situation, he would want to find out as much about it as possible as well. 

“His last check-in point on the phone was in the lane outside a place called Club 88 in Hell’s Kitchen.”

 _“You took better care of that mutt you had as a teenager than your ward,”_ was her response, but she told him she would see what she could do.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

She didn’t say, just told him to stay put, and she would get back to him once the problem was solved.

Typical Rosalind. He appreciated that she was willing to help, and he knew he needed all the help he could get, but the way she took over and refused to share any information reminded him too much of his childhood. He already knew that doing nothing but sit around would be excruciating.

But at least there were people out there looking for Matt. The Centre, despite the fact they classified him as a runaway, had found him in the past when he _had_ run away. And Rosalind had resources on hand that Foggy knew nothing about. He reminded himself that it was Rosalind who had managed to arrange the lease for Matt in the first place and had arranged everything so they could attend Columbia together. As infuriating as it was, he had to admit she did know what she was doing.

With Matt missing, it felt wrong to watch TV or read a book, not that he’d be able to concentrate on any of those things. Cleaning. He could do the cleaning. He did laundry and organized the cupboards. He cleaned the fridge and swept the floor. He assessed his baking supplies and made brownies because when Matt came back, he would be hungry, right? And brownies were one of his favorites, even though he would never openly admit it.

The rest of the evening passed and turned into night. The second night Matt would be away. He thought about going back to the club, now that it was open. But... if it was someone there who had Matt, what good would Foggy do? Matt knew how to defend himself and how to fight. It wasn’t like they’d have him somewhere accessible. They might also have moved him somewhere else in the meantime. Was he even still alive? He checked his email over and over again.

Then Foggy went.

The line-up for the club reached half way down the block. Foggy walked around the building first. All the exits were closed and locked. He stood in line, berating himself for being an idiot and wearing his jeans and an old t-shirt when he finally made it to the front of the line and the bouncer took one look at him and told him to piss off.

He argued. He begged. Fuck. He was so fucking useless.

And then, miraculously, they let him in. He paid his fifty-dollar cover charge. The club was dark; the music was loud. Lights were flashing, the baseline thrumming steadily in Foggy’s brain. He walked around. It was just a stupid club with a band, and a bar and people dancing and drinks spilling. It was just a fucking club.

There was a hall at one end leading to offices and storage rooms. Locked. Everything was locked. It was still just a fucking club.

He ordered a fifteen-dollar bottle of beer that would have cost five dollars anywhere else. Drank it. And went home alone. There were still no email messages, no phone messages. Nothing. He slept on the couch still waiting for a call. 

He called Rosalind first thing in the morning and was told they were working on it and not to call back. _Go do something_ , she said.

_Do what?_

He went for another walk, retracing the route on his phone that showed where Matt had been. Over and over again. Nothing.

And he was still alone.

No messages.

He slept on the couch again.

The day after, he didn’t go out again. He stayed in his apartment, listening to the silence and the background noises. Matt had become such an integral part of Foggy’s life that everything seemed empty without him. The gloom and desperation were hard to keep at bay. Because if someone had him, Matt should have been able to escape by now, right?

Sister Catherine phoned around noon, asking if Matt had been found yet.

“No, have you heard anything?”

_“No.”_

No word from the Centre. No word from Rosalind. He stayed on the couch wrapped up in a blanket, and all he could think was, _what if he never gets found? What if he’s dead? Why did I ever let him go out in the first place, I should have been more careful._

…

The call came after midnight. It was Rosalind. “ _We found him. My bounty hunter brought him to the Jersey Clinic, and he’s being processed and treated for his injuries_.” 

Foggy squeezed his eyes shut. _Thank you, Rosalind,_  he praised her silently and clutched at the phone in his hand. “Is he okay?”

_“I wouldn’t say that,” Rosalind said thoughtfully, “But not worse off than he was when you got possession of him.”_

He thought about that, let the implications of it sink in. “But I can go see him? Can I take him home?” 

_“I don’t see why they’d want to keep him longer than necessary. From what I understand, they’re collecting the forensic evidence they need right now. He wasn’t alone down there, Franklin. My bounty hunter managed to secure the evidence of Matthew’s ordeal, and with the help of a sizable donation to the Centre Fund, the agents have agreed to keep his name out of it.”_

“What do you mean? Where was he? What happened to him?” 

_“I mean, dear son, that despite your extreme lack of supervision, I’ve managed to save us from a whole mess of unwanted attention. I haven’t heard a thank-you yet.”_

“But—”

_“Don’t expect my help to come without a price. I used my money to fix this mess; I expect compensation. And I can do you a favor at the same time. The boy can work for me for the summer; he’ll only benefit from training by real supervisors. You’ll thank me for it later. Trust me. We’ll have to get together sometime in the next couple of weeks to draw up a plan for what improvements you would like to see.”_

He couldn’t argue now, not when she was responsible for Matt being found. Foggy would fight tooth and nail not to let Matt stay with Rosalind for extended periods of time, but he also knew he might not have much of a choice in the matter. But that was another discussion for another time. He bit back everything he wanted to say and told her he was on his way to the clinic. “Will I see you there?”

She laughed in that mocking tone of hers that Foggy knew all too well. “ _Call me if you have any hassles_.”

He took a cab, the conversation running through his head over and over again along the way. Matt was alive. That was what counted. He was hurt, but he could recover. Matt was stronger than anyone he’d ever known. He would bounce back from this as he did from everything else. Whatever happened to him—fuck, he hardly even wanted to think about what could have happened to him—at least he’d have Matt back, and they would be okay. Everything would be okay. 

Unfortunately, repeating things over and over in his head didn’t work as well for him as it did for Matt.  He still hadn’t convinced himself by the time he arrived at the clinic.

…

The last time he was at the clinic had been with Claire after Matt had had his back implant surgery. It felt different this time. For one, he was dropped off in front of the walk-in clinic rather than the recovery and long-term care area.

He paid the taxi and went in through the front door, trying not to stare at the wards sitting in the waiting room. He couldn’t help but notice the young woman with her wrist bent at an unnatural angle, sitting and leaning up against an older man, also wearing a Centre bracelet, who looked tired and sick himself. He forced himself not to look any closer.

Foggy stepped up to the front desk. A man staring at the computer screen tonelessly told him to take a number and an intake nurse would be with him shortly.

“I’m here to see my ward, be was brought in earlier…”

The man looked at him this time, and his entire attitude changed immediately as soon as he realized he wasn’t speaking to a ward. “Oh, sorry sir. Yes, you have a ward here? His ID?”

“3A6HN9.”

The receptionist typed in the number and waited. “Oh, he’s in processing. I’ll call an agent to come up and escort you to the back, you can go ahead and sit over there,” he motioned to a small room to the side. 

The room had six comfortable looking chairs, instrumental pop music being piped through a speaker and a selection of magazines and a coffee dispenser. Of course, supervisors would have a separate place to wait away from the wards. It didn’t take long for an agent to come and greet him. She shook his hand and sat down in the chair across from him. “Mr. Sharpe?”

“No, Foggy Nelson. I’m Matt’s supervisor.”

She nodded and smiled. Leaseholder, supervisor… it was all the same to her. Her expression turned serious. “I’m Agent Foster. Have you been informed about the situation yet?”

“Not fully. Is Matt okay?”

“Yes, your ward will make a full recovery and will be able to resume work within a couple of days. The detectives have already left, and we have everything we need from him for now, but there may be a couple of subsequent interviews we’ll need to conduct in the next week or two.”

She opened a folder onto her lap and passed Foggy a medical report. “We’ve dropped the charges against him in regards to making an escape attempt. It’s obvious he was held against his will, and the testimony of the private detective who located him led to the same conclusions. There are no broken bones. Abrasions to the wrists and ankles, bruising on the face, arms and torso. Follow-up health checkups will be scheduled, and we will inform you of the time and dates through our email service. There are drugs in his system; he’s tired but aware of his surroundings.” 

Foggy followed along with the printout in his hands, trying to keep up. “Yeah. Okay. Where was he found? What happened to him?” 

“He was located in the lower level of a club used for sex trafficking. According to testimony, he was recognized by a partner of that club who had been involved in his mistreatment during his previous placement.”

 _And Foggy had been there in the club. Why hadn’t he tried harder? Fuck._ Foggy ran his hands through his hair.

The agent continued, “I’ve been informed that your ward was kidnapped off the street while walking alone. Is walking alone a common behavior?”

“Yes, there’s nothing in his profile that states he needs constant supervision,” Foggy said defensively.

“Of course. However, there will be an investigation. In such a case that you are found negligent, there will be a fine to cover medical costs.”

“Yes, okay. I get it. Can you take me to see him now? Will I be able to take him home today?”

Agent Foster stood up, took back the medical print-out and placed it back in her folder. “As soon as he is done with processing he’ll be ready to be signed out.”

She led Foggy through the halls to the back of the building. There were multiple doors along the drab white hallway, all numbered, and she stopped at number eleven and swiped her key pass. The bolt clicked and unlocked.

There was nothing in the room. Just more white walls and the linoleum floor. And Matt, who was sitting in the corner, one arm tucked protectively against his side and wearing just a paper gown that came down to his knees, leaning to one side and resting his head against the wall with his eyes closed. There were purple and yellowish bruises along the side of his face, and one eye was bruised nearly black and swollen shut, bruises on his legs and marks around his wrists and ankles, scabbing over where the skin had been rubbed raw.

Fuck. He looked terrible. “Matt?” Foggy eked out.

Matt moved slowly, raising his head. Foggy stepped inside. “Matt. Hey, I’m here.”

Matt struggled to sit up straighter; he hugged his knees. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“No, hey. You’re going to be okay, now.” Foggy crouched beside him, placing his hand on his shoulder, hoping it wasn’t going to hurt him, and rubbed gently. “I’m here to bring you home. How are you feeling?”

He shook his head from side to side, “I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“Think. I can’t think.”

Foggy went ahead and sat beside him, wrapping his arm around Matt’s shoulders and hugging him close. He turned back to the agent, “What else do you need from him? Will it take long?”

“Would you like to return to the waiting room while I talk to my co-workers and get a time estimate for you?”

“No, I’ll stay here,” Foggy insisted.

“I have to lock you in.”

“Fine. That’s fine,” he answered quickly.

She shrugged and closed the door. Then they were alone, and Foggy held Matt close. “We’re going home soon. Let me take a look at you, are you in pain? Is there anything I can do?”

Matt shook his head. “I’m okay; it’s just bruises. I’m sorry, I’m just tired,” he mumbled into Foggy’s shirt.

“It’s okay. We can talk about this later. I’m just glad to have you back.” He ran his fingers through Matt’s hair, it was slightly damp and smelled like strong soap. “Matt, they said you’d been drugged. How much of all this are you following? Do you understand what is happening?” 

He felt Matt grip his shirt lightly and then let it go. “I’m at the clinic,” he said. “I was-“ he swallowed roughly and stopped. “I know what happened. I’m just tired. It’s hard to focus.”

Foggy thought at least he sounded coherent.

“And you’re going to take me home,” Matt added.

“Yes, I’m taking you home. I’m not leaving your side,” Foggy promised.

They didn’t say anything else. Foggy wasn’t even sure Matt was still awake until the door opened again and Agent Foster stepped inside. 

“Alright, we can take him into processing now,” she said to Foggy. Her tone changed when she spoke to Matt. “Come on, time to get up,” she ordered, waiting expectantly.

Matt struggled to push himself up with Foggy helping him. The agent was watching them warily, Foggy knew, but he reminded himself not to respond. Arguing with a Centre agent wasn’t going to do Matt any favors.

He wrapped his arm around Matt’s waist as the agent looked on. “I can get a wheelchair if you need.”

“No, thank you,” Matt declined, but Foggy could clearly hear the strain in his voice.

Matt’s movements were sluggish at first, but aside from a slight limp, walking seemed to get easier as he kept moving. The agent took them to another room a few doors down. There were machines on the counters, computers, and a chair. With buckles.

“What’s this?” Foggy asked.

“Processing,” she explained. “Have him sit there.”

Of course, she wanted Matt in the chair with the buckles. They had no choice. They weren’t going to let Matt leave until he was ‘processed.' Foggy helped Matt into the chair, and he could tell immediately Matt knew what it was. He gripped the handle at the end of the armrest and was still.  

Agent Foster passed Foggy a clipboard, “I noticed you have signing rights. This is the release form to process your ward into our new identification initiative.”

“What is it?” he asked as he looked over the paper. It was a lot of ‘I consent to,' with contract language relating to the pilot program involving ward identification and tracking. “I’m not approving an implant.”

“It’s the new Integrity Chip. In the fall we are implanting all our wards with the technology to replace the outdated ID bracelet. The chip will allow automatic scanning at checkpoints, precision tracking and health link information.”

“So, no more bracelets?” Foggy asked.

“The bracelets aren’t getting replaced yet, but we’re in the process of developing a tattoo system that will be more readily identifiable.” 

Foggy cleared his throat and handed her back the form without signing it. “Matt needs time to recover, and I don’t want to spring anything new on him. We’ll, uh, just wait until the program is implemented. Thanks.”

The agent shrugged, and a young woman wearing a lab coat stepped forward and buckled the straps on Matt’s arms. As she worked, Foggy noticed she was wearing a bracelet as well.

Matt sat passively, head back and eyes closed as though he were doing nothing more than resting in a comfortable chair. But Foggy could see that his knuckles were white from the force of the grip he was holding on the armrest. Foggy stepped forward and placed his hand over Matt’s. “It’s okay. I’m staying. I’m not leaving you here,” he assured him quietly, and Matt nodded.

There was a high pitched sound of the lasers engraving the metal tag as the ward-technician entered Matt’s ID into the computer. She verified the number again, and then took the chain and pulled the ends up around his wrist and secured the ends together with a handheld clamp, pressing the button. She held it in place as a red light flashed, a moment later it beeped, and she slid a narrow wedge between the bracelet and Matt’s skin to prevent the newly welded chain from burning his skin.

The agent came back forward and released the buckles from Matt’s arms and handed Foggy more paperwork to sign before handing him the release papers to present at the front desk on the way out.  “I don’t have clothes for him,” Foggy said, and the agent sighed and opened a cupboard, glancing back momentarily to estimate Matt’s size. She passed him a plastic wrapped package.

“The clothing he arrived in was taken into evidence by the detectives. Your account will be charged.”

“Was there a cell phone with his items?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” she said dismissively. He would have to remember to check with Rosalind later.

“Shoes?” he asked.

She pulled out of a pair of thin foam flip-flops and handed them over. “You can get him dressed here, and I’ll escort you back to the front.”

Foggy waited a second. She didn’t move. Okay, then. He ripped open the bag and shook out the thin cotton drawstring pants and helped Matt step into them, then removed his clinic gown and pulled the t-shirt over his head. Foggy tried not to flinch at the large bruise covering the right side of Matt’s ribcage. Maybe nothing was broken, but that still had to hurt like hell. Foggy suddenly wished he’d been more mindful when he pulled Matt close before.

Lastly, Foggy helped get the flip flops on Matt’s feet. At least it wasn’t too cold outside, but he passed Matt his fall jacket to wear over the thin top. 

The front desk took the release papers, Foggy called for a cab, and that was that. He was bringing Matt home. 


	56. Repose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief moment, rest, regroup, move forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks tj_teejay, as always!

“Slow down, you need to let yourself recover.”

Matt spun around so he was walking backward and facing Foggy who was walking behind him. “This is recovering,” he assured him.

“What the hell are you doing, you can’t see where you’re going,” Foggy griped.

“Foggy,” Matt laughed. “Really?”

“What if someone sees you? What if we get in trouble because I’m neglecting my leaseholder duties?”

Matt still had a grin on his face. “There’s no one in a 50-yard radius of us. I think we’re safe.”

Foggy rolled his eyes. “I’m rolling my eyes at you right now.” But yes, he knew he was ridiculous. Matt didn’t need to see a damn thing to not trip or bump into anything in his way. “I’m just saying, don’t you think it’s a little soon?”

“No.”

Right. Of course he didn’t. It had been two days. Two whole freaking days since Foggy had picked Matt up at the Centre. Two days since Matt had been assaulted in the basement of a damn nightclub by one of his former leaseholders.

This was insane.

“I’ll go stir crazy if I sit around any longer with nothing to do,” Matt continued to argue.

“There’s plenty to do. You can catch up on my boxed sets of X-Files.”

“I’ll say this because I’m not sure you noticed, but The X-Files aren’t blind-friendly. Besides, I think I mentioned wanting to not be driven crazy?”

“This,” Foggy said, waving his arm around him, “Is what’s insane. Matt. Seriously. It’s been two days. Don’t you think it’s a little soon to start exercising?”

“You make it sound like I’m going to an aerobics class.”

“And parkour is so much less intense,” Foggy said in a voice dripping with sarcasm. “You are off your rocker.”

Matt slowed down and stopped. “Thank you for coming with me. Honestly, Foggy.”

And that… That was how Matt won arguments. “Why do you want to do this now? Why not wait for a few days before getting back into the swing of things?”

“Because I want to feel like me again.”

“And feeling like you means doing parkour at the skate park,” Foggy answered dryly.

Matt laughed. God, it was so good to hear Matt laugh.

“Okay.” Foggy held out his arm, and Matt took his elbow, slowing to match Foggy’s pace. This felt right, the familiar bickering, the laughing. There was no way to deny he didn’t miss it while Matt had lain in bed the last couple of days.

Matt let go of his arm as soon as they reached the park, and Foggy listened to him breathing beside him.

“Don’t push yourself too hard, you’re still healing,” Foggy reminded him.

“I’m aware,” Matt answered and walked forward. Instead of running off and doing flips the way Foggy expected, Matt walked over to the bench and sat down. Foggy sat down beside him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Every inch of my body feels like it got run over by a bus. So, no, I’m not going to do anything more strenuous than sit here with you. Thanks for assuming I’m in that good a shape, by the way.”

“You’re welcome. But, if you don’t want to exercise, why are we here?”

“For the walk. To get out of the apartment. Because I like it here.” 

“Oh,” Foggy said and fell silent. Those were good enough explanations. Matt could have told him he came because he liked the smell of cement, or because he enjoyed hearing the crickets fart or something equally weird. Foggy would have still nodded and followed his lead.  

Matt breathed in a breath next to Foggy, and when Foggy looked at him, a small smile played on his lips. They sat, sitting so close together their arms nearly linked. Whatever Matt was listening to, if he was listening to anything specific beyond the traffic, it seemed to take up his whole attention.

But that was all right. That was what Matt did.

So Foggy sat silently by his side, enjoying the serenity of the moment.


	57. Sucker Punch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The road to recovery is full of potholes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tj_Teejay wrote this!!!!  
> Thank you so much tj_teejay for this awesome addition!!!!  
> Thank-you! Thank-you! Thank-you! Thank-you!

**Lost and Found  
– Sucker Punch –**

_A totally unsolicited interlude by TeeJay_

+-+-+-+-+

Foggy wasn’t sure what had woken him, but he soon realized it had to be Matt.

Over on the futon at the other end of room, he was restlessly moving around, moaning, uttering unintelligible words. It sounded like he was having a bad dream.

Foggy listened for a few more seconds, unsure what to do. There was only the faint light of the streetlights from outside filtering in through the windows. It had to be the middle of the night.

There was another moan from Matt, and a very clear, “No!”

That did it. Foggy swung his legs over the edge of the bed, tapping over to Matt’s bed on bare feet. Even in the dim light, Foggy could see Matt was thrashing about, his eyes moving wildly under closed eyelids. He was having a nightmare.

“Matt,” Foggy said tentatively. “Wake up.”

It didn’t do anything.

“Matt, buddy. You’re having a nightmare. You need to wake up.”

It only made Matt thrash more. Shit. Foggy sat down on the edge of Matt’s bed and touched his shoulder. “Ma—”

The fist flew out faster than he could have ever anticipated, Matt’s knuckles punching him hard in the cheekbone. Foggy toppled off the side of the bed and awkwardly landed on his knees next to the futon. “What the hell?!”

Matt’s voice was very small. “Foggy?”

He straightened up, registering a very confused Matt facing him, propped up on his elbows.

Foggy harrumphed, feeling the skin under his eye. It was sensitive to the touch. “Are you awake?” he asked Matt for good measure.

“Yes,” Matt answered. “What happened?”

“You had a nightmare. I was trying to wake you up.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. I’m made of pretty strong stuff. We can show off matching shiners tomorrow. It’ll be glorious.”

“Wait,” Matt said with sudden realization. “I hit you?”

“You sure did.”

“In the face?”

“Yeah. Cheekbone. With your fist. Some nightmare, huh?”

Matt shrank back a few inches, drawing up his knees, trying to curl in on himself. “No. Foggy, I didn’t— I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I would never hit you. I’m sorry. I’m—”

“Hey,” Foggy interrupted. “Hey, hey, hey, none of that, okay? I shouldn’t have touched you. I don’t know what I was thinking. If anything, this was my fault.”

“No, Foggy. I hit you. I’m your ward, I should never hit you.”

“Matt, listen to me. You weren’t yourself. You were asleep, for God’s sake. Trapped in the throes of whatever horrible dream scenario you had going on. This is _not_ your fault.”

“You need to punish me. I’ll— I’ll sleep in the converted space. I’ll do all the chores. I’ll do whatever you want me to.”

“Jesus Christ,” Foggy muttered. He sat back down on the bed, but Matt shrank even further away from him. Foggy scooted closer until he was sitting next to him. “You will do no such thing. Not if I can help it. What you need isn’t punishment, it’s a hug.”

Matt’s voice was almost inaudible. “No,” he whispered.

“Yes.” He bumped his drawn up knee against Matt’s that was still under his blanket. “I mean, don’t get how you can even say that. When have I ever treated you like anything less than a human being? What makes you think I’m gonna stop doing that now?”

“I hit you,” Matt repeated meekly.

“Yeah, so what? My sister hit me all the time when we were young. Granted, maybe not a sucker punch to the face, but then again, she wasn’t abducted, drugged and tortured a mere three days ago. I can only imagine what was going on in those dreams of yours. Believe me, buddy, I understand, and it makes me angry and sick to my stomach when I even think about it. No person should ever endure anything like that, and I wish we could have gotten you out sooner.”

Matt was quiet, which prompted Foggy to look over to him. He was taken aback to see a tear glistening on Matt’s cheek. “Hey,” he said softly. “It’s okay. You’re here now. It’s over. It’s just you and me.”

Matt’s face only twitched with more emotion, still no sound coming out of his mouth. Foggy pushed his knee against Matt’s again, this time a little more gently. “Can I touch you?” he asked carefully.

A small nod was Matt’s reply, and Foggy’s arm came around Matt’s shoulder, pulling ever so slightly. Matt didn’t offer up much resistance and leaned against Foggy’s side. Foggy’s thumb stroked Matt’s shoulder, letting him silently ride it out.

They sat like that for a long time, the only sounds the occasional car whooshing by outside, and Matt’s soft sniffles. Foggy held him close the whole time. Eventually, Matt quieted down and propped himself up. The palms of his hands wiped at his unseeing eyes. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“No need to apologize.”

Matt turned to face Foggy. “Does it hurt—your eye?”

Foggy grinned. “A little. I’ll live. Let’s just forget about it, okay?”

“I can’t,” Matt said just above a whisper.

“You know what? If you wanna do something to make it up to me, then please stop feeling guilty about it. It wasn’t your fault, Matt. I’m not mad at you, or hurt, or upset. How often do I have to say it to get through to your stubborn little head? Can you promise me you’re gonna stop with this self-flagellation over something that was out of your control?”

“I don’t know, Foggy.”

“Come on, you can do it. Promise me.”

Matt sighed. “Okay. I promise.”

“Are you lying to me right now?”

“I’m not lying.”

“Good.” Foggy got up from Matt’s bed and went over to his own, grabbing his pillow and blanket, carrying them over to Matt’s futon.

Matt sounded confused. “What are you doing?”

“Please excuse me, but I’m tired, and there’s no way I’m gonna let you sleep alone for the rest of the night.”

“You don’t need to do that. I’m not alone.”

“You know what I mean.”

It elicited a small smile from Matt, and Foggy instructed, “Come on, scoot over and make room for my shapely, bone-tired body.”

Matt did as he was being told, giving Foggy enough space to slide in next to him. Matt rearranged his blankets and turned over to face the wall.

Foggy turned in the same direction, with a direct view of the back of Matt’s head. He had suppress the urge to slip even closer and spoon, but he only just managed to suppress it. Instead, he told Matt, “If you need anything, please tell me. You can wake me. Any time, okay?”

It was a long shot, because he knew that even if Matt wouldn’t be averse to physical touch right now, he’d never say it. Foggy didn’t wanna push. “I’m right here,” he added.

“Thanks,” Matt muttered. “Good night, Foggy.”

“Night, Matt. Sleep well.”

Foggy listened for a long time, wondering if Matt’s long and even breaths meant that he had actually fallen asleep, or if he was just faking it for Foggy’s benefit.

He eventually drifted off to sleep, never knowing the answer.

+-+-+-+-+


	58. Rosalind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer job.

 

“I know what we are going to do,” Foggy exclaimed loudly and placed his beer on the coffee table, and the sound of it in their small apartment was sudden and shocking.

Matt frowned and wondered if Foggy had meant that to sound reassuring.  “You know what we’re going to do about what?”

“About you, about Rosalind. I’m going to come with you. That will be the condition. Rosalind has wanted me to be interested in her work for years. Years and years. You don’t have to be alone.”

“So, you _are_ going to sublet me?” Matt asked and placed his beer on the table beside Foggy’s. He tried to keep the betrayal he felt out of his voice.

“No. Technically, she can’t sublet you because she is your leaseholder.”

None of it sounded good. He didn’t trust anyone else. Foggy was the only good thing that had happened to him since becoming a ward. Foggy was the only one he trusted.

“It’s both of us or none of us,” Foggy said firmly.

 ---

Foggy bought them both new-used suits from the thrift store. Foggy’s suit smelled like mothballs and Matt could smell traces of formaldehyde on his own. None of those factors reassured him at all. They washed them three times to reduce the smell and Foggy swore that they smelt like nothing more than lemon fresh to people without super sniffing powers. And to top it off, according to Cynthia, the cat loving geriatric tax accountant living across the hall, they smelled just fine and they both looked sharp.

“Cynthia’s apartment smells like cat urine, and she’s getting cataracts surgery in a week, I don’t think she sees much better than I do.”.

“We’re classy, trust me,” Foggy ignored him. “Follow my lead, and we’ll be okay. When we get there, act like I’m your supervisor.”

“You are my supervisor,” Matt reminded him.

“I am. But I mean, act like that’s how I treat you. Pretend to be submissive to me and listen to everything I say.”

“Foggy, she’s my leaseholder.”

Foggy interrupted him. “I am your leaseholder Matt; she’s nothing more than a name on a piece of paper. Don’t worry. You’re mine.”

The last thing they did before leaving was for Foggy to put Matt’s collar back on him. “I’m sorry.”

But that’s the world they lived in.

\---

The building was made of glass and sound echoed from multiple smooth surfaces, and the lobby shimmered with echoes of sound. It was beautiful. Matt stood entranced by it all until Foggy took his hand gently tugging him back into motion.

This was it. He was finally meeting Ms Sharpe. Foggy could claim him as his own all he wanted, but all the Centre cared about was the name on the contract and their lease payments. Ms Sharpe held his future in her signature; she had the power to send him back, sell him, do whatever she wanted. And now Matt was going to meet her.

His loyalty was with Foggy, his supervisor and friend. Foggy who treated him like an equal, mostly, and who he argued with and who had saved him already so many times Matt didn’t even know where to begin. 

“I can go alone.” Matt offered reluctantly.

Foggy saw through the false bravado immediately. “We’re in this together.”

That sounded overly simple, but Matt wasn’t going to argue.

The security guard at the front reception desk greeted Foggy as he introduced himself. “Welcome Mr Nelson,” he said and then indicated Matt. “Do you have his papers?” he asked Foggy.

Foggy handed over the lease license for inspection, and then the security guard stamped the top of Matt’s hand with the company logo and today’s date.

“Elevator two.”

It was glass. Like most everything in the building. Matt listened to the whirring motor, the creaks and scrapes of the metal box through the vertical tunnel. A soft instrumental version of an eighties pop song played inside and each floor beeped as they passed. Foggy knew where he was going, and he held waited for Matt to take his elbow as they exited the elevator.

The receptionist asked them to wait and Foggy led him over to the sofa to sit down, and there he held Matt’s hand. “We’re going to be fine. Remember what I said.”

“You’re my supervisor, and you’re training me,” Matt answered. Foggy had only gone through the plan with him about a hundred times. “I remember what you said.”

He could hear sounds from the surrounding offices. Voices. Typing.  They both sat silently, lost in their thoughts as the seconds passed. Five minutes later, the receptionist called Foggy to let him know Ms. Sharpe was ready to see him.

Foggy tugged on Matt’s hand, “Come on,” he said.

“She just said you.”

“I’m sure she meant us both.”

They walked up to the office. The door was open.  

Rosalind’s high heels tapped on the floor as she stepped forward, pausing several feet away. “Franklin, interesting suit,” she remarked.

“Thanks,” Foggy answered, shifting his feet.

“And this is the ward.” She stepped forward and contemplated Matt, then removed his sunglasses to study his face. “He looks better than when I viewed him at the Centre for you,” she said grimly, “I’m sure my team will whip him into shape over the summer for you.”

“He is in shape, and no whips.”

She laughed. “It’s an idiom, Foggy.”

Foggy took a shaky breath, his grip tight on Matt’s arm. “I’m training him myself.” 

She rolled her eyes, her tone becoming fake and conciliatory. “And you’ve done an admirable job thus far, I’m sure. He’s not a toy, if you wish him to be trained properly to be an adequate assistant to you in the future, you’re going to have to have him professionally developed.”  

“And he’s not an animal,” Foggy said firmly. “He belongs to me, and I decide what happens to him.”

She sighed. “He is yours,” she conceded. “I will have one of my ward-supervisors assigned to help in his training. Take it as an opportunity to learn proper ward management and we have a deal.”

“Agreed,” Foggy said.

And so, the summer began.

 

 


	59. Mainstream

The mail room.

Matt stuffed envelopes, and Foggy sorted mail for the delivery carts.

Matt was glad he got to work with Foggy, and as far as work went, stuffing envelopes wasn’t terrible.

No one was actively ‘training’ him; Foggy made sure Rosalind's offers to have her ward supervisors improve him remained unfulfilled. The other wards were distant but polite. He wasn’t locked up. Compared to any other workplaces he'd been in, this was like paradise.

He was thankful. What more could he ask for?

Foggy had the weekends off, and because Foggy insisted on being with Matt at all times, Matt had the weekends off as well. On their time off they walked to Central Park, they watched Netflix at home and ate popcorn. So far as a being a ward went, this was as good as it could get.

But that didn’t mean the world around them was getting any better.

The incidents of civil unrest were increasing. News coverage was sparse, but they caught hints of the unrest in third-page articles in the newspaper. Another factory closing its doors after a fire. Wards who were dispersed back into the system for re-education after being radicalized.

Foggy narrated one news story on the TV where a reporter slowly walked through the empty warehouse talking about it had once been a place where wards worked in peace, but under destabilizing influences from outside forces, the entire workforce had been obliged to undergo retraining. Who was behind the attack on their way of life?

_There are organizations out there who hate us and they will stop at nothing to tear us down. We need to be vigilant. We need to be wary. They threaten our entire way of life._

The Centre was conducting investigations, but some sources were suggesting that criminal influences were at work behind the scenes instigating wards into violence. Other sources pointed the finger at foreign powers who were jealous of their success. The reported concluded with the appeal that if anyone witnessed or suspected suspicious activity; report it to the Centre safety commission hotline immediately.

Whenever Matt left the apartment, he wore the corrective collar. A ward without a collar would be stopped and questioned. A female working-ward had been shot by security agents just the other day when she'd resisted detainment and run from security officers; she hadn't been wearing a collar.

The Centre issued memo's to all supervisors, for their safety and well-being all wards must wear their collars while in public. It was a matter of civil protection and health.

Foggy scoured the message boards for alternative news sources. He knew where to find the anonymous chat rooms criticizing the Centre but new message boards got censored and shut down as quickly as they started. The penalty for protest was detainment, even for free citizens. 

Citizens active in the online communities supporting protests suddenly went quiet.

An elderly civil rights lawyer known for helping wards was found floating in the Hudson. The mainstream news only briefly reported on his passing. The consensus was he was an agitator and had probably been involved with illegal activity. After only a brief investigation it was ruled that his death was due to natural causes.

The police did not investigate his death. Everyone involved in anti-Centre activities understood the implications of that. The authorities are not on your side. 

The mainstream news praised the Centre program for its ability to rehabilitate wards into society as a remarkable success. Anyone who opposed the system opposed freedom and public justice. Protesters were anarchists and threat. 

And through it all Foggy and Matt went to work and they lived their lives as best they could. They did their jobs, and they didn’t complain. Foggy was content that he could keep Matt close and minimise the threat of people taking advantage of Matt's position of vulnerability as a ward. They were both careful not to say or do anything that could be interpreted as suspicious. While at work they stuck to their roles of ward and supervisor and Matt tried to interact with Foggy as little as possible, keeping what contact they did have professional and respectful. Obedient.

But at home, Matt lounged on the couch reading library books. He listened to pirated copies of banned audiobooks while Foggy browsed the internet and watched videos. 

"Matt, listen," Foggy said and pulled off his headphones, unplugging them from the speaker so that Matt could better hear the YouTube video.

 _Please, please help me_ , a girl pleaded. The background noise sounded like she was in a moving vehicle. _They arrested us outside the courthouse. They used tear gas. We were only holding signs. We stayed outside the safe zone of the front of the building._ Someone in the background was coughing, throwing up.  _They shot Jack. Oh god. They took him away. I don’t know where they’re taking us._

On the video Matt heard a van door slide open, men were yelling, a woman screamed, and then the feed went silent. A moment later another voice came on. Commentary.

_We verified the girl is Haley Malloy, a med student; she was arrested along with five other protesters who were standing outside the courthouse today. Her current whereabouts is unknown._

Foggy paused the video. “Did you hear anything in the background?” 

“Give me the headphones and play it again,” Matt suggested. He sat down and listened, over and over again. Finally, he shook his head and took the headphones off. “I can only hear as much as the device she was using was able to pick up. It's not enough.”

Foggy patted him on the back. “It was a long shot. Any idea where they might have taken them?” 

“Probably the pens.” He said, referring to the main Centre holding area. The place they'd taken him when he’d first been detained. He listened to Foggy type in the suggestion in the comments, for someone to look for the missing protesters in the pens.

They did this a lot, listening to brief snippets of videos and Matt trying to decipher anything going on in the background that could help. Sometimes he was able to catch something. He’d heard the background announcement of a bus departure in one video and had helped connect an activist to a ward trying to escape from the Centre. Another time he’d been able to hear sirens in the distance on a livestream even before the protesters in the video were aware of them, Foggy had messaged a warning and gave the group a head start to run and hopefully evade arrest.

It wasn’t much, but every little bit helped.

Matt wished he could do more. He’d recovered from the incident in the night club, but he was more careful about taking risks. He was more cautious about everything. Foggy was his primary concern. If he got caught doing something stupid, Foggy would be implicated. If they were investigated, Matt worried the agents would be able to find Foggy’s internet activity. It would be enough of a reason to have him arrested and sentenced. He was not going to let happen to Foggy what happened to him. Maybe there wasn't a lot he could do, but he was going to keep Foggy safe.

But still. Matt couldn’t protect Foggy from everything no matter how much he tried, and when the Centre Agents showed up at work, Matt felt like the breath had been completely knocked out of him.

_No._

His mind raced with all the possibilities. Had someone reported them? Had their VPN been traced? There were two men; they walked up to Foggy, one standing on either side.

“Mr. Nelson, we have questions for you.”

Matt immediately heard Foggy’s heart start racing. “Sure, what do you need to know?” Foggy asked, his voice slightly higher than normal from stress but seeming calm.

“We’d like to speak to you in private.”

Foggy placed the envelopes he'd been sorting down and stepped aside. “Matt, stay here and wait for me,” he ordered. And Matt nodded, having no intention of following the order whatsoever. He remained out of sight but followed the trio down the hall to where they’d entered a small office room filled with boxes. 

“What do you know about Steven Geoffrey?” they asked.

That wasn’t what he’d been expecting. He heard Foggy shift his feet, but he answered smoothly enough. “He’s the asshole who implicated my ward in the Christmas riots and got him detained.” 

Matt stayed out of sight, but close, listening to everything.

They asked Foggy about the University, they asked about the other wards there.

 “When we lived on campus, Matt stayed in the dorm with me rather than in the communal bunkhouse for the wards,” Foggy explained.

“Have you noticed any unusual activity?”

“We live off campus now, and we’re here every day.”

“And what about your ward?”

“He’s blind, but he makes a good study partner in school. We work well together,” Foggy said, downplaying Matt’s abilities as much as possible.

Matt backed away and silently returned to the mailroom once the interview finished. He still didn’t understand why they came to interrogate Foggy, but the questions seemed more aimed at other people than at themselves, and that was a relief.

At least for now.


	60. Directions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When one door closes...

The letter came in August.

They sat together at the kitchen table in their little apartment, and Foggy got up and brought Matt a beer from the fridge, twisting open the cap before passing it over. Matt silently picked it up and took a long drink.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Foggy said.

Matt didn’t respond.

“All it says is your admission is under review. They haven’t made a decision yet; we can still fight this.” Foggy said adamantly.

Fight what? The university had never wanted him there. His presence had been protested by other students and had caused rifts in the faculty. Tensions were rising between civilians and wards, nothing was getting better, and they both resolutely did not talk about it. 

They didn’t talk about how Matt now had to wear a collar whenever they left the apartment. They didn’t talk about the upcoming appointment Matt had at the clinic in September to insert a microchip under his skin as the Centre upgraded their identification systems.

What was the use?

What were the chances he could have become a real lawyer? He was a ward and he belonged to the Centre. Even if they had allowed him to attend school that would have just increased his productivity value and Foggy would have to pay more on his lease. He didn’t want that.

“Matt, even if they decide you can’t come back to school, they can’t stop you from learning. I’ll record the lectures. We’ll study together, and it will be like you’re there but without the tests.”

"It will be cheaper. You can quit the research program. I can earn my lease by working. It will be better." He reasoned, despite the crushing disappointment he felt deep inside. It had been stupid to think anything good would come of it anyway. What did a third tier ward need with higher education?

It had been his dream to become a lawyer. Getting into Columbia University with Foggy’s help after everything that had happened had been a miracle. It was ridiculous to think it could last.

“I’ll get Rosalind to talk to the dean. We’ll figure this out.”

"Don't. Just." It hurt to say the words. But they were for the best. "Don't." 

They didn’t talk about it further, not yet. Matt wondered if he would keep working in the mailroom here or if Foggy would bring him to Columbia to join the other wards laboring there.

He wanted to ask Foggy what he was planning to do with him now. But he didn’t say anything. He knew Foggy would be thinking about it and he knew Foggy would do whatever he thought was best for them both.

The next day they were back in the mail room. Despite the letter, despite everything being different, on the day to day level nothing had changed.

Foggy delivered the mail through the offices. Matt folded and stuffed envelopes. And on and on. When Foggy returned from his rounds he was asked to pick up more envelopes from the supply room. 

"Matt, come with me."

No one said anything about it, and very few were willing to contradict Ms Sharpe’s son even if he did just work in the mail room. 

The storeroom was located next to the loading dock on the first floor, down the hall and to the right and Foggy swung the key ring around on his finger as they walked. “I think we should rent a movie tonight.”

“Rent?” Matt laughed. They never rented movies. The movies just magically appeared on Foggy’s laptop, no questions asked.

“Rent,” Foggy said and tossed the keys up and caught them. “How about a Bollywood?”

“No.” As good as Foggy was at narration, having Foggy both narrate the actions and the subtitles was a bit much. Foggy already knew this, and he grinned, and Matt laughed as Foggy patted him on the back.

“Good job, buddy,” Foggy praised him.

It was embarrassing and thrilling all at the same time. He’d said, no. It wasn't such a rare occurrence anymore, but Foggy still tested him from time to time. He’d said, no, without fear and it felt exhilarating.

Foggy tossed the keys in his direction, Matt caught them easily in one gesture and tossed them back.

The keys sailed past Foggy’s fingers and skidded across the floor. Matt rolled his eyes, “Seriously, Foggy? You can see, how can you miss!” Matt joked and then realised Foggy wasn’t laughing with him. “What’s wrong?”

“They went under a door.” 

Shit.

Foggy tried the handle. It was locked. Of course, it was locked. Foggy knelt and pushed his fingers into the space between the door and the floor. “I can touch it with the tips of my fingers… here, you try,” he said and shuffled aside and let Matt take his place. 

Matt reached under and felt them and only managed to make matters worse by adding the perfect amount of pressure they needed to fall down a step and out of reach. He heard them clank as they landed on the step below. He slowly stood up and placed his hand on the door for a moment, getting a feel for it, feeling where the lock was…

"Someone will have a key and be able to open it for us," Matt reasoned.

"And we'll end up working late to cover the wasted time," Foggy said, stepping back, out of Matt's way. 

"We don’t know what’s in there.” And even as Matt said that he knew that wasn't true. He did know what was in there. Nothing. Even the air coming from under the door smelled stale. No one had opened that door for years. Foggy was right. The amount of time it would take to locate the keys would be wasted. He didn't want to stay at the office any later than Foggy did. 

“The keys are in there. Go ahead,” Foggy encouraged him. 

One solid kick was all it took, the lock snapped, and the door swung inwards. Dusty stagnant air rushed up to greet them, and Foggy quickly reached in grabbed the keys and pulled the door shut. Not locked, of course, but good enough.

“Come on; they’re going to start wondering where we went.” He grabbed Matt’s wrist and tugged him forward.

“How long do you think it’s been since anyone went in there?” Foggy asked him.

Matt shrugged. Thinking.

“Do you want to check it out later?” Foggy asked him. 

Later turned out to be much later than they thought. A week passed before Foggy remembered it. Usually, they went outside and ate in the courtyard to have their sandwiches, but today it was raining, and Foggy asked Matt if he was still interested in finding the doorway he’d found.

“Me? You’re the one who dropped the keys.”

“Details.” They headed down. Foggy tried the door and found it undisturbed from before. Still dusty. Matt stifled a sneeze and took a step forward, carefully stepping down. “There’s another door down here,” Matt said and tried the handle, this one wasn’t locked. “Do you think someone forgot all this was here?” he asked Foggy.

“The best way to lose something is to leave it in plain sight.”

It had been an office at one time, and then a storage room. All the stacked furniture was old. Desks, chairs, even couches and a bathroom. Matt felt a breeze and followed it to another door leading to the loading dock. The possibilities...

That was how it started.

… … …

That night, Matt went for a walk. He’d worked it out with Foggy ahead of time, and Foggy knew where he was going. That didn’t make the journey any easier.

He stood outside the orphanage for a minute before circling around the back, listening intently to the sounds inside. The kids were in the rec room, reading and playing and doing homework. He stopped at each window searching for the one presence he needed to find. Sister Catherine. She was talking on a cell phone, and Matt waited patiently until her conversation was finished before reaching up and tapping on the glass.

All sounds from within stopped. He tapped again. Footsteps getting closer. Another pause. He knew there wasn’t anyone in the room with her, and so he risked being seen. She opened the window immediately and took his hand to help pull him inside. Right away he was wrapped in her arms, she held onto him tightly, holding him close.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” she chided him even as she held on. “I can help you, but we need to be careful. This is the first place they’ll come looking.”

Matt pulled back. “No, that’s not what I’m here for; I think I can help you."


	61. Fighting Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing good ever happens to Matt...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TeeJay stopped by again for half a guest-chapter. Epic win!

Sister Catherine sighed. “You can’t even help yourself, what do you expect to be able to do for me?” she asked reasonably.

When he didn’t answer, she sighed again. “I thought you were happy.”

“I wasn’t happy,” he corrected her quickly. “How could you even think that? Things are better than they’ve been since my citizenship was taken away, but not…” and he had to keep himself on track. This wasn’t the way he wanted this meeting to go. “I need to do more.”

“Why now?”

“Why not?”

“What has changed, Matt? There has to be something. Is your handler starting to get comfortable in his role? You said you were friends before, is that what has changed?” And suddenly her tone changed, became softer and more serious. “Is it something else? Is he hurting you?”

“No. Foggy is my friend, he’s always been my friend. This isn’t about him. I just,” and he knew he might as well just come out with it. “They aren’t letting me return to school.”

“Are you surprised?”

“No.”

Conditions for wards were only getting worse. Every time a protest happened, the Centre retaliated with stronger propaganda and harsher punishments. Proof of misconduct only resulted in extra training for supervisors and agents. It seemed to only prove that wards were not meant to be integrated into communities, but to be kept under more strict controls.

Matt let out a long breath. “I’m tired of playing their game by their rules. Foggy is on the message boards, and every day there are stories about accidents and misconduct. What will things be like in ten years? Twenty? I can’t stand by anymore, I need to do something.”

“What do you think you can do?”

“I’ll help you. Help you help them run,” he said and told her about the room he found at the office.

Sister Catherine listened.

Later that night, Matt returned home to Foggy, excitedly telling him of his meeting with Sister Catherine. Foggy poured a bag of chips into a bowl and they sat together on the couch late into the night talking about how they were going to help people, save lives, resist the Centre and make a real difference.

It was going to be great.

*****

The plan was going forward. They cleaned up the forgotten office and were regularly talking to Sister Catherine about the needs such an operation would require. Somewhere private, multiple exits, self-contained. Everything was good to go.

And best thing was—it would all be right under Rosalind’s nose without her ever knowing. It satisfied Foggy’s desire to antagonize his mother, albeit secretly, and it helped Matt fulfil his need to resist the Centre in a greater capacity.

Of course he sometimes had doubts that Rosalind would be content with just letting him and Matt sort mail the whole summer, but Foggy tried to tell himself not to be paranoid, that this wouldn’t be ruined by some weird twist of fate.

He got comfortable in their routine to the point where he’d almost forgotten that the possibility existed. The longer it went on, the more he believed that maybe Rosalind wasn’t such a monster, that she could be a decent person, after all.

And then his nice little illusion was shattered when Matt returned from making a round of deliveries, all pale and shaky.

“Matt? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Matt responded stubbornly, but Foggy wasn’t fooled so easily.

“Yeah, that’s bullshit, and you know it.”

“I—” he started. “Not here.”

Foggy put away the envelopes he was holding and took Matt by the upper arm. More for show than for emphasis he said loudly, “You are my ward, and you will do as I say.”

A couple of their co-workers glanced their way, but obviously it was just a dispute between a supervisor and his ward. Nothing to see here.

He pulled Matt towards the hallway, leading him to their little hideaway that they had discovered the other week. Once in the room, he let go of Matt’s arm. “Sorry. I had to—”

Matt gave him a quick nod. “It’s okay, Foggy. I get it.”

“Tell me what’s wrong. Did—did someone try to assault you?”

“No, no, I’m fine. Nothing like that. I overheard something, that’s all.”

Foggy waited, but nothing else was forthcoming. He sighed and leaned up against the wall. “Do I have to drag every word out through your nose?”

“Fine. I was doing the deliveries and part of that goes past your mother’s office. It was Rosalind… She was talking to someone on the phone. He was asking her why she was indulging her son’s whim to be so lenient with his crippled ward.” Something ugly mixed into Matt’s already grim expression.

Foggy’s jaw clenched at the words. Matt continued, “And he asked when she was going to do something about it, and she told him— She told him she’d been waiting for her top training supervisor to get back from sick-leave. He’d been attacked by one of the wards he was training just a few days before we got here, but he’s coming back to work tomorrow.”

Matt paused, clearly disturbed by what he was relating. “She said her trainer will evaluate me tomorrow and they’d go from there.”

No. Foggy had to swallow. Fuck.

“Are you… are you sure this was about you?”

“How many other sons does Rosalind have who supervise a disabled ward?”

Yeah, okay, when he put it like that… “Shit,” Foggy hissed.

And there they were. Matt looked stricken. “This is going to ruin everything.”

“Yeah.” What else was there to say?

However, Foggy wasn’t ready to give up just yet. “There’s gotta be something we can do.”

“Like what?”

“Well… We could run. Change our identities, get new passports, spend the rest of our days on a small island in the Caymans…”

That elicited a short but sarcastic chuckle from Matt, but his expression turned grave again immediately. “I’m serious, Foggy.”

He sobered. “I know. But I’ll still be here with you. They aren’t going to do anything horrible while I’m here.”

“What about after school starts up again? I’ll be stuck here, working alone. Without you.”

“Then I’ll take you with me, I’ll get you a placement at the University.”

“You’re not my leaseholder, Rosalind is.”

“I know.” Foggy said quietly. “But I’m going to take care of you. I promise.”

“How? She’s my leaseholder. You’re just my supervisor. You don’t have any authority, especially over anything she decides regarding me.”

The knot in Foggy’s stomach grew ever bigger. “That’s… I admit it sounds bad. But you know that I’m not just going to let them take you without putting up a fight, don’t you? And look. Right now we’re painting worst case scenarios that are all based on hearsay. Nothing’s set in stone yet.”

“Are you even hearing what I’m saying? Her trainer, who is going to start training me _tomorrow_ , was recently attacked by a ward, and obviously injured seriously enough to be out of commission for a few weeks. I’m sure he has an extremely positive attitude regarding leniency towards wards.”

God, Foggy fucking hated this. It was everything he never wanted to happen. “I know.” He rubbed his eyebrow, then repeated, “I know. I need to think.”

Matt turned away from him, mumbling, “Thinking won’t help.”

And that made Foggy angry. “Why are you so destructive, Matt? I’m sure we could think of something if we tried. But you’re just going to bow to your fate like you always do, right? Like that’s going to help!”

Matt spun back around to face Foggy. “What am I supposed to do?” he countered, his voice raised. “Every time I fight back, they punish me harder. I don’t want another immobilizer implanted in my back. I don’t stand a chance against the system. It’s useless, and it always ends with more pain, more humiliation.

“God, Foggy, I thought by now you’d know this. You’ve seen it often enough. But, well, I guess it’s easy when it’s not you.”

That wasn’t fair. How could Matt even— 

Foggy also raised his voice. “None of this is easy! Do you have any idea how much it sucks to have to stand by helplessly and watch what they’re doing to you?” He let out a frustrated growl. “I hate this fucking system so fucking much.”

“That’s why I didn’t want to tell you. I don’t expect you to be able to fix everything for me. I’ll be fine. Like I always will.”

“Matt…” Foggy started, but Matt had already turned away.

He didn’t say anything else, he just wordlessly walked to the nearest wall and threw his fist at it. It gave a loud whack and Foggy jumped from the sudden outburst of violence. “Matt, what the hell?”

“Just leave me alone,” was all he said before he walked out.

Foggy stood dumbfounded for a moment, staring at the spot that Matt had just hit. The brick wall. That must have hurt. They were supposed to be a team. They were supposed to be part of the resistance and stand up to the Centre by helping wards escape and start a new life. This room was supposed to be a part of that.

But the reality was, Matt had no autonomy to do anything on his own. Whenever they started having a plan in place and things were starting to look better, all it took was one phone call to turn Matt’s whole life upside down—again. First with University, now with being assigned a new supervisor at the office, and having to undergo whatever training they saw fit to put him through.

Foggy went after Matt, but the latter was nowhere to be seen. Fuck.

He did the only thing he could think of, he went back to the mailroom. Matt wouldn’t dare run off from work. Would he? Matt knew how important it was to keep up appearances here. He knew he’d be in even more trouble if he bailed now.

Foggy kept agonizing over this for the next fifteen minutes, debating what he would do if Matt didn’t come back, what kind of excuses could he come up with for his ward’s sudden disappearance. But no one even questioned Matt’s absence, and eventually Matt came back to his post, and without a word continued his work from where he left off.

“Matt,” Foggy started.

Not a word. Matt shook his head no, and just kept on working.

Foggy couldn’t help but notice Matt’s red and bruised knuckles on his right hand, but kept his mouth shut.

*****

Their way home was just as silent as the rest of their afternoon at work. One of the first things Foggy did when they got home was to take a cold pack out of the freezer. He held it out to Matt, together with a kitchen towel. “Here, put that on your hand.”

Matt took it and placed it listlessly on the kitchen table. “I don’t need that, I’m fine.”

“It doesn’t _look_ fine. I hope nothing’s broken.”

He flexed his hand. “Nothing’s broken.”

Foggy shrugged. “If you say so. I’d still feel better if you put some ice on it.”

Matt didn’t respond and left the ice pack untouched on the table. Foggy eventually put it back in the freezer.

For the rest of the evening, Matt’s answers to questions like what they should eat were taciturn and non-committal. Foggy couldn’t stand it.

“Okay,” he finally told Matt. “Here’s what we’ll do. If necessary, we’ll stay up all night and devise a plan. Cause this—” he gestured back and forth between the two of them, “isn’t helping anything, and it’s making us both miserable.”

It didn’t get any immediate reaction out of Matt. He knew pressuring Matt into it anything would be counterproductive, so he decided to give him a little more space and time to warm to the idea.

Foggy wasn’t sure where to start so he went online. Maybe there were loopholes he’d not yet found. Maybe there were message board discussions with helpful answers and experiences. Or maybe he was just idealistic and slightly delusional.

He’d been at it for almost an hour, when Matt came in and sat down on the futon. “Foggy…”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry.”

A small smile spread across Foggy’s lips. “It’s fine. And I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. What I said was really shitty.”

“It was, but… I know you didn’t mean it.”

“How’s your hand?”

Matt shrugged. “A little sore.”

“Are you sure nothing is broken?”

Matt let out a little chuckle. “I was telling the truth. Nothing’s broken.”

“Well, good. Then maybe you can help me. If you want.”

“How?”

Foggy pushed his laptop back a few inches and sighed. “That’s the thing. I don’t really know. I’ve tried the research angle, but that’s a big, fat zilch. We’ll have to come up with something more creative.”

“Like what?”

“Brainstorm with me. What can we do to prevent Rosalind from siccing her masochist trainer on you?”

“I don’t know, Foggy. You know her better than I do.”

“Come on, give it a shot. Say the first thing that comes to your mind. It doesn’t matter if you know her or not. I want crazy ideas. Go.”

“If I was dead…?”

“Hm. I don’t want you dead. Faking your death… hard in one night. Also not sure how we’d get out of that and still live a normal life. But what if you were sick or somehow physically incapable?”

“I’m already blind.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“They’d send me for medical evaluation. And unless it was something life-threatening, they’d still declare me fit for training. I’m a ward, remember? My lease is bound to Rosalind. She can do whatever she wants.”

“And maybe that needs to be our focus point. We need to _want_ her not to train you. Maybe we’ve been approaching this all wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that all this time I’ve encouraged you to stand up for yourself, to think for yourself, to behave like a human being and not like a ward, right?”

Matt frowned, his face concerned. “You think that was wrong?”

“No.” Frustration started to swing in Foggy’s voice. Why was Matt even still doubting that? “No, that’s the rightest thing in the world if there ever was one, but not when it comes to Rosalind. What I’m trying to say is, if she didn’t need a reason to train you, she wouldn’t want to invest the time and money.

“So, I need you to behave like a model ward around me. Full obedience, no opinion of your own, no opposing statements, no needs, no wishes, no dreams. God, that sounds terrible.”

“Foggy, I know how to act like a ward.”

Foggy elaborated, “But we’re not like that, you don’t act like a ward who is afraid of his supervisor. You don’t act around me like you would around your supervisors back at the laundry factory, do you?”

“No, I don’t.” Foggy didn’t need to ask what Matt thought of the idea—his face spoke volumes.

“I know it sounds awful, but it’s just another few weeks, right? We can put up a good show, and I promise by my not yet existent law degree that it will only be while we’re in the office.

“Nothing will change between us. It’ll be just like acting. Did I tell you I used to be in drama club in school? It’ll be good to stretch those acting muscles. You know, we’ll treat it like a challenge. What do you say?”

Matt still looked skeptical. “I’ve never done any acting.”

“You’ve done plenty acting. You just don’t know it yet. We have all night to rehearse. Are you up for it? Please tell me you’re up for it.”

Matt sat up a little straighter. “What do I have to do?”

“Just pretend I’ve given you a good ‘talk’, and we’ve come to the conclusion that you need to be more obedient and a better ward. That you’ll do what I tell you without question. Maybe reciting the tenets will help. You still remember those, don’t you?”

Now Matt almost looked offended. “I’ve been—”

Foggy interrupted him. “Of course you do. That was rhetorical. We need to make it plausible, though. No over-exaggerated groveling or subservience or anything.”

“Foggy.” Matt looked like he was sucking lemons. Or like maybe he was going to puke.

“Yeah, I know. I just mean it can’t be too drastic a change. People have seen us around the office, they’ve seen us interact with each other. It’ll be weird if you were suddenly crawling at my feet, waiting for my every command. I just… It needs to be realistic under the given circumstances.”

“I still don’t know what you mean.”

Foggy got up from their rickety desk chair. “It’s okay. We’ll write an outline of our epic movie script. You know, like storyboards.”

“Like what?”

Oh. Right. Visual cues didn’t mean anything to Matt. “Storyboards. They draw pictures of camera shots before they start shooting the movie to map out where to place cameras and how to frame the scenery and the actors. We’ll just— Here.”

He picked up a notepad and a pen. “I’ll take some notes and then we’ll run through scenarios together. Let’s start with the story we’re going to tell when we get in to work tomorrow…”


	62. Best-Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Best-Laid Plans.... go awry.

Foggy and Matt planned and plotted into the wee hours of the night. By the time that they were comfortable with having covered all the necessary angles, it was almost 4 a.m. Matt could feel his eyelids drooping, but he thought maybe it had been worth it. They were as well prepared as they could be with the time they had.

Foggy nudged him lightly in the ribs. “You think we’re good to go for tomorrow?”

Matt startled from almost having fallen asleep. “Hm? Yeah. Yeah, we’re good.”

“Come on, let’s go to bed.”

Matt yawned, stretched out on the futon across from Foggy’s bed. “We’ve got this,” he said sleepily.

Foggy reached across the space between their beds, hand fisted, and they bumped knuckles. “You bet, buddy. Everything will be fine.”

They were both fast asleep within minutes.

*****

Despite their late night, Matt woke up several times that night. The next morning brought fake optimism and jitters. They knew what was at stake, and there was still a chance that their ingenious plan wasn’t going to work.

Just thinking about what was going to happen felt odd. To go back to being treated like other wards, to go back to responding the way a ward should felt like a step in the wrong direction.

Foggy was his supervisor, he needed to keep that fact first and foremost in his head. Always respect your supervisor, your supervisor is always right. As they walked into the office building, Matt was careful to stay a step behind Foggy, head down, and close. This morning there was no familiar chatting, no jokes, no nudges, and no shared smiles.

As usual, they went to their posts in the mailroom to sort through the mail of the day. Foggy barked out orders without any please or thank you. He told Matt to hurry up, gave him a shove or two to push him along. Matt worked quietly alongside him, following orders and staying submissive and humble. He even called Foggy, ‘Sir’.

The formality and general abruptness of their interactions sucked all the warmth out of the air. It seemed like even the other workers in the room could feel it too, everyone was more quiet than usual. Everyone seemed solemn.

It was just an act, but it was tiring all the same, and when Rosalind’s aide showed up, Matt was actually kind of relieved. At least they weren’t going to have to wait anymore. They had a plan, they’d play it out and things could go back to normal. He hoped.

The aide assessed the room carefully before approaching Foggy. “Ms. Sharpe would like to speak with you.” Beside her was another man, someone Foggy didn’t recognize, but it wasn’t difficult to place what he was. A ward supervisor.

“Come on, Matt,” Foggy said, ready to go. He was sure they could show Rosalind that Matt was—

“Just you,” the aide said to Foggy. “The ward is going with Mr. Sanders.”

That wasn’t how they had imagined this playing out. They were supposed to go see Rosalind together. “My ward stays with me,” Foggy insisted.

Matt stayed very still as the other man walked up next to him and closed a hand around his bicep. “You come with me.”

He almost had a protest at the tip of his tongue, which only emphasized why their plan was necessary. Remembering himself, he kept his mouth shut, and bowed his head.

“I’ll come get you after,” Foggy promised, and Matt felt Foggy’s hand lightly brush against his before they were separated.

Matt went where he was taken. Which at first was along the hall to the service elevator, and then down.

He tried to follow Foggy with his senses as he was led away, but it was difficult. He knew the layout of the areas he regularly worked in, but where they were taking him now was unfamiliar, and as the elevator he was in went down, the one Foggy had taken to went up farther than he could reach..

His elevator stopped in the basement. A subfloor level, but he didn’t know how far down. This was where the building’s wards were quartered, he could already smell the ready-made food from previous meals and the body odour of unwashed working bodies.

It wasn’t a stretch of the imagination that there were no windows here, no sunlight. He thought about lying out on the grass at Columbia University, just feeling the sunshine against his body, smelling the grass, hearing the wind rustle the leaves in the trees. He’d loved and cherished the moments as best as he could, knowing full well they could be taken away easily, and at any time. Was this it?

The supervisor roughly pushed Matt in the back and he stumbled forward , “Keep going,” he ordered, directing him down the hall. “In here,” he said, and grabbed Matt’s arm again to steer him into a room on the right.

“Mr. Sanders, I have the ward you requested.”

“Ah,” a male voice said when Matt entered the room. “Just who I’ve been waiting for. Wards late for training aren’t appreciated much around here. Twenty pushups, 3A.”

3A? Those were the first two digits of his ID number. And how could he be late? He’d just been brought here.

“My name is Matt,” he offered hesitantly, not sure if it was just because the supervisor wasn’t aware of his name.

“Congratulations. Now you are 3A.”

He already hated it. They could call him whatever they wanted. But to Foggy, he was and always would be Matt. That was all that mattered.

Hands clapped in front of his face and he flinched back. “What are you waiting for? I said twenty push ups.”

There was no use arguing. Matt did as he was told. He lowered himself to the ground and did the pushups as the supervisors stood over him, counting them out one by one. He was winded by the time he got to twenty. He wasn’t used to this anymore.

“Now then, let’s see what you’re good for. Kneel and recite the tenets.”

*****

_So far, so good,_ Foggy thought.

They had expected this. Well, maybe not the part where Matt had rather rudely been taken away, but then again, he really _should_ have expected it, shouldn’t he?

They let Foggy wait in the anteroom to Rosalind’s office. Classic intimidation tactics to show him who was boss. It wasn’t going to work. Rosalind was his mother, he was more than used to waiting around for her acknowledgement. It took fifteen minutes before he was being called into Rosalind’s office, a lot faster than he’d expected.

He was still confident he could turn this around. He would be polite but firm, and she would be impressed.

“Franklin,” she said to him, gesturing to the chair opposite her desk.

“Mother,” he said, giving her a nod. He sat down. It felt like a business meeting.

“I will cut right to the chase.” She met his gaze, and there was nothing warm in her eyes. “Something needs to be done about your ward.”

Okay, well, that was quick. No, _Hi son, how are you? Are you having a good summer?_ He automatically rolled his eyes. “His name is Matthew.”

Damn. Foggy wanted to bite his tongue. The response had been automatic. He was always correcting people who just referred to Matt as _the ward._ Being a ward didn’t mean you didn’t have a name anymore.

He took a breath and smiled at his mother. He wasn’t supposed to defend Matt, he needed to get on his mother’s good side.

It didn’t seem to matter anyway, Rosalind completely ignored his statement and carried on.

“From today on, he will be trained by one of my best supervisors. I’ve heard enough reports from the mailroom to prove to me you’ve been much too lenient with him, and it’s detrimental to both your productivity. Untrained wards are a drain on the system, and I’m convinced you simply don’t know what you are doing. I am going to help you reach both your peak potential.”

Foggy swallowed back all the things he would have liked to say to that and forced a smile. “Yes, and I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”

“Oh?” Rosalind raised one eyebrow.

“I’ve actually come to realize that myself, and Matthew and I have had a very serious conversation about it last night. He’s not been trying as hard as he should, and I have decided to counteract it with more rigid rules and a stricter punishment regimen.”

“Hmm.”

Rosalind didn’t sound or look as impressed as Foggy had hoped, so he went on, “There’s no need for you to train him. I’ll do it myself.”

One corner of her mouth twitched, and that couldn’t be a good sign. “That’s all nice and well, my dear, but I’m not sure that you have a well-founded knowledge on the topic. How much supervisor coaching have you had?”

“The mandatory sessions, of course.” Oh boy. That had been ages ago. He’d been appalled by most of it, and had already decided there and then it was not something he wanted to absorb or retain. “The university offers regular refreshers.” Now, that was not a lie, but Foggy had never actually attended any.

“And how have those worked for you?”

“I’d like to think well enough. Since he’s been with me, Matthew has not had any violent outbursts or made any escape attempts.”

“Which doesn’t surprise me, because you’ve treated him like a pet—some would even say like an equal. He’s not your equal, my dear. He’s not your friend. He’s a _ward,_ and a criminal _._ It’s high time you started treating him like one.”

He bit back all the retorts he so desperately wanted to say and smiled. “I agree, Mother. I firmly believe that we can both do better, and I’d like to try and prove it to you.”

“Would you now?”

“Yes, absolutely. Let me prove it to you.”

“I couldn’t be happier to hear that, Franklin.”

Foggy almost wanted to whoop, but then Rosalind continued, “Because I’m sure this new arrangement will benefit all of us.”

“What new arrangement are you referring to exactly?”

“Mr. Sanders, the supervisor I was telling you about, will school you and your ward and thus help you both reach your full potential in your respective roles. We only have three weeks left before you go back to your education, and so we have a lot of work to catch up on. I had hoped that we could start this training earlier, but there were unforeseen complications.

“Be that as it may, your ward is already being prepped, and you can join him and Mr. Sanders this afternoon to begin your lessons.”

“Prepped? What? No. Where did you take him?”

“For now, your ward will join the other wards in this building. We’ll take good care of him for you, Franklin. He’s where he belongs.”

“No,” he raised his voice, angry now. She couldn't do this. “He’s mine.”

She continued, unperturbed, as though he hadn’t said anything at all. “For now, I will leave you with this,” she placed a memory card at the edge of her desk for him to pick up, “It’s a PDF document I would like you to familiarize yourself with before tomorrow morning. Mr. Sanders will expect for you to have studied it thoroughly. Do not disappoint me.”

Foggy swallowed. This was _not_ where he had hoped this would be going. He said again, “Matt belongs to me.”

“Matthew is a ward, he belongs to the Centre. He isn’t yours, you are his supervisor.”

“I’m the one training him. We’ve been doing fine without your help.”

“I’m sorry, but nothing I have seen so far has indicated to me that you are remotely capable of proper ward management. This is not up for discussion. Study the PDF on the memory card I gave you, and you’ll see your ward later this morning for your first lesson. You are dismissed.”

And just like that, Foggy felt like a ten-year-old all over again who had come home with a bad mark on his school exam. “But... I take care of him. He relies on me,” he implored one last time.

She didn’t reply. All she had to do was flick her eyes toward the door, and then she refocused her attention back to her work.

The message was clear. There was no moving her. More arguing wasn’t going to help, and antagonizing his mother now wasn’t going to help him in the future either.

Foggy left the room without another word.


	63. We Aren't Your Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt and Foggy had a plan, and then it backfired. Not that much of a surprise, is it?

Matt knelt and recited the tenets. Sanders, the one in charge, walked around him in a slow circle. It was distracting, and his back felt like it was crawling with nerves every time the man passed behind him.

He was repeating the tenets for the fourth time when the man stopped just off to his left side. He paused, listening hard, because the man was standing still. His voice was firm when he suddenly spoke. “Did I tell you to stop?”

Matt bowed his head and went on reciting. “Acceptance. A good ward is obedient and submissive. Productivity. A good ward works tirelessly and is worth only as much as he—”

“That’s enough,” the supervisor said. “Take off the sunglasses, you don’t need them here.”

Matt complied immediately. “They aren’t mine,” he said quietly, “Please, do you mind returning them to my primary supervisor, to Foggy?”

A chair was dragged closer, and the supervisor sat down facing him. He took the glasses and placed them into his pocket. Then he paused, reaching out to grasp Matt’s chin and tilt his head up at an angle. Matt tried to be still, but his face grew warm with embarrassment the longer he was stared at.

“You weren’t born blind?” Sanders asked.

Matt knew the man was staring at the scarring around his eyes and on the corneas. “No, sir. There was an accident when I was young. The— the scarring is from a previous placement.”

The supervisor huffed a breath. “I’ll have to take another look at your health records. Can you see anything at all?”

“No, sir. Not even light, the nerve endings were completely—” and he didn’t get a chance to finish before Sanders interrupted him.

“Any other impairments or disabilities?”

“No, sir.”

He didn’t get the glasses back and no more was asked on the subject.

“Let’s get this straight. You were convicted of attempted murder. You have a history of insubordination. You’ve attacked a supervisor. There are several unsuccessful escape attempts. Your record does not look good, and frankly, I don’t understand why the removal of your immobilizer was approved.”

“It malfunctioned,” Matt said, but Sanders cleared his throat to interrupt.

“Tenet number three.”

“Silence.” Matt answered, head down. “A good ward is a quiet and efficient worker.”

Sanders nodded and continued. “We do not tolerate disobedience here. My job as head supervisor, and the job of my coworkers as shift supervisors, is to ensure the safety and efficiency of the office space. We are not your enemies.” He paused and let that sink in. “We are not your enemies, repeat that for me, 3A.”

“You are not my enemy,” Matt repeated quietly.

“But,” Sanders continued, “should you act as you have in the past, we have other ways of keeping you obedient. We will enforce these methods if the necessity arises, and none of them are very pleasant. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Our working wards wear regulation ward uniforms. We have special jumpsuits for wards on prep, which will be given to you. Remove your clothing except for your underwear. Shoes too. When was the last time you were permitted a shower?”

“This morning.”

“Good.” He waited as Matt removed his clothes and passed him the new outfit. Matt fumbled with it at first, trying to find which way was up, until finally settling on the zipper.

“The zipper goes at the back.”

Zipper at the back. He stepped into the legs, short at the ankles, but the outfit itself had plenty of room to move. He slipped his arms into the sleeves and then heard Sanders stand, felt a hand on his shoulder turning him around, and the zipper was raised.

“May I have my shoes back?”

“You will be provided standard issue slip-ons. You may kneel again.” Sanders sat back down. “You have a history of sexual misconduct.”

“I—”

There was no chance to defend himself, Sanders interrupted and told him again to repeat the third tenet.

_Silence. A good ward is a quiet and efficient worker._

“For the safety of the law abiding citizens in this office building, for the safety of my co-workers, and for the safety of yourself and all the other wards placed here, I must make something absolutely clear.

“Sexual behavior is forbidden, as is soliciting and performing sexual acts. Should you be caught, punishment is swift and grounds for dismissal from our service to be returned into Centre care. If someone approaches you and either offers or coerces you into a situation that involves sexual conduct, you must report the violation to a supervisor immediately. Understood?”

That was good, though, wasn’t it? Could Sanders really be telling him he’d be protected from that kind of abuse? It was hard to believe such a policy would be enforced, but he hoped it would be. “Yes, I understand.”

“You and the other wards are here to work and fulfil your lease obligations. Anything that interferes with the completion of that work is to be reported to a supervisor. The law abiding citizens of this office know better than to interfere with the wards under my care.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Of course your situation is a little different, isn’t it?” Sanders continued. “Somehow you have managed to become the special pet project of Ms. Sharpe’s son. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir,” he answered, not knowing what else he could say to that.

“From what I’ve been debriefed, the boy was sick, and now that he is better, he chose you to be his personal assistant.”

Matt nodded.

“You knew him previously to this placement?”

Matt nodded again. “My first placement was at a hospital. We met there while he was sick, sir.”

“And I suppose you consider him your friend.”

He swallowed. “He is my primary supervisor, sir,” was all Matt could think of to say.

“Let me offer you some advice. He may wish you to act as though you are friends, but you are not equals. You are a convicted criminal with a violent history, and you owe the Centre your redemption and loyalty.

“His mother owns your lease. Your primary supervisor is in charge of when or if you eat, when or if you sleep, of your routine and of your comfort. He controls whether or not his mother keeps you or if you are returned to the Centre. Should you fail this placement, it is likely you will be on the market for a few months and then transferred to a corrective labour camp.” Sanders sighed. “Do you understand, 3A?”

He nodded slowly. “Yes, I understand, sir.”

“In order to retain this placement, you not only have to satisfy your lease supervisor, you must also satisfy his mother, and she is not easily impressed. For everyone’s sake, you are here to learn how to respond to your lease supervisor properly the way a ward should, and he is going to learn how to handle you properly, the way a supervisor should.”

Matt nodded again. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. I haven’t worked with a blind ward before. What can you do?”

“Whatever you want me to,” Matt said in an uncertain tone, “If you give me a chance, I can do anything you need. I’m a fast learner.”

“Right. Can you read a label or instructions?” Sanders asked, his voice sarcastic.

“Not unless it is in Braille, sir.”

“Then you can’t do _anything_. What are some of the chores you’ve done in the past?”

“Folding sheets, laundry services, general cleaning. In the past few weeks, I’ve been working with my supervisor in the mailroom.”

“That’s reassuring to hear. Have you done cleaning work before?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. I’ll assign you to the Facility Management unit. While you are on prep—if you are unfamiliar with the term, it means training preparation—you will not be working with the other wards, but rather fulfilling a specialized training regimen.

“I will not be overseeing your prep directly, this will be handled by your prep supervisor, Mrs. Cleveland. What I _will_ do, is direct the lessons with your primary supervisor twice a day. You will be assigned a sleeping pad in the ward quarters. There are three meals a day, allotted time slots for these will be announced by your prep supervisor. Any questions?”

“No, sir.”

“We adhere strictly to the tenets here. Recite them again.”

Matt ran through them once more, and Sanders seemed satisfied.

“Get up.”

Matt did as he was told.

“Follow me.”

His cane had been left behind in the mailroom; there hadn’t been time to grab it before being abruptly escorted downstairs. Of course he had excellent spatial orientation even without his walking cane, but he also knew that he couldn’t give that fact away.

Matt tentatively followed Sanders, listening to the sound of his steps and extending his hands in front of him to feel for potential obstacles. He couldn’t help but notice a muffled sound around Sanders’ right knee, and that the man was walking with a slight limp. Could that be the injury that he’d overheard Rosalind mention—the result of her top supervisor going on leave from being attacked by a ward?

Sanders stopped and turned around to face Matt. “How do you normally get around?”

“I can walk independently with a cane. Without it, I need to be guided.”

He fully expected disregard, even punishment for the necessary extra assistance, but Sanders walked a few steps back towards Matt. “Well, do you _have_ a cane?”

“Yes, it’s upstairs in the mailroom.”

“I’ll send for it. For now, touch my arm and follow.”

Matt was surprised at the humane behavior. He reached out and lightly touched the man’s arm. He was brought into another office, and knelt where Sanders stopped him.

“Mrs. Cleveland, this is your new prep subject, 3A.”

The desk chair scraped against the floor as she stood and walked closer. “Blind?”

“Apparently he manages. He’s done cleaning in previous placements.”

She made a noncommittal noise in her throat. “This is the one Ms. Sharpe asked you to work with, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright then, leave him with me and we’ll get started.”

Matt’s spirit sank. Here he was again, back in the belly of the beast. Their plans from the night before had all sounded so good in theory. But like most everything in his life, that had fallen apart, too.

*****

After Sanders left, Matt was alone with Mrs. Cleveland, kneeling in her office. He understood that he was here for additional training, but other than that, he didn’t know what being prepped meant. Frankly, just the idea of it sent chills down his spine.

He heard her move something around in her desk drawer. “Up,” she commanded, and Matt rose from his knees and stood. “Place this around your ankle, close it securely.”

He knelt on one knee to fasten the plastic band around his right ankle, the band clicking as it locked in place. On one side was a small mechanical box. He heard her pressing buttons on a remote, and his collar beeped three times.

“This is a proximity shock system. You are restricted to designated areas. Should you leave these areas, an alarm will be set off and your collar will emit a series of shocks, repeating until you return to where you should be. Supervisor offices are normally off-limits, but I’ve deactivated it for my office for the time being. Follow me,” she said brusquely and grabbed his wrist to pull him along after her.

After the first few awkward and unsteady steps, he managed to catch her pace and rhythm. She led him down the hall, unlocked a room that smelled of old dust and wood, and led him inside.

“Are you capable of physical work?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Sir,” she corrected him. “You call me ‘sir’.” Then she pulled him to one end of the room and moved his hand to touch a chair there. “There are piles of chairs stacked along this side of the room. It’s a mess, and I want you to restack and organize them on the other side of the room. Do you think you can do that?”

He ran his hand along the chairs. They felt old, the metal legs rusted in places, the plastic rough with wear. “I can do that,” he confirmed.

“Good. Get to it then.” And she turned and left, locking the door behind her.

The chairs weren’t stacked in any sense of order, several stacks had fallen over at some point, and others weren’t stacked at all. He spent some time just walking the room, getting a feel for the space so he wouldn't be surprised by anything later. And then he started.

There were no carts, he had to do it all by hand. Pick up the chairs, move them across the room, restack them along the far wall, careful to make the stacks line up with each other, make them even with ten chairs per stack. They were awkward to carry, so he could only take a few at a time, stack them, line them up, rinse, lather, repeat. He was only one person and there were a lot of chairs to move.

It took all morning. But finally, he placed the last chair.

But then what? He didn’t have any way to let his supervisor know he was finished. Should he knock on the door to get someone’s attention, or wait? Trying to get attention was presumptive. Mrs. Cleveland would come back and handle him when she was ready. But then… waiting was not productive. He could be accused of being lazy or dodging work duties. He tried looking for something else to do, maybe he could sweep up some of the accumulated dirt and dust, but there were no brooms, no cleaning supplies. Nothing but the room and the chairs and himself.

Should he sit? He chose to kneel down, took slow even breaths. What could he do that might impress the supervisors? Recite tenets. He spoke them out loud, going through them carefully and repetitively. As he did so, he slipped into a relaxed state, the tenets repeating in his head automatically, like a mantra. The thought entered his mind that this was exactly what being a good ward meant, and he hated it.

When the door did open, he was startled. Matt scrambled back onto his feet and stood at attention. Mrs. Cleveland didn’t say a word as she walked in, inspecting his work. “Why did you stack the chairs in groups of ten?”

Matt opened his mouth and then closed it, and then opened it again, “I just thought—”

“Thought what? I told you to stack them in groups of eight.”

“Eight?”

“Kneel down.”

Matt knelt back down, but he was thinking back, _groups of eight,_ no, she hadn’t said anything about that. There’d been no specific instruction on how high to stack the chairs. “But—”

He flinched as his collar was activated, resulting in a quick, painful shock. “But what?” she asked.

He took a shaky breath. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Sorry for what?” He could hear her finger sliding over the remote button to activate his collar again.

“I’m sorry for not obeying your commands,” he stammered.

She replaced the remote into her pocket. “Hold out your hand. Palm up.”

His hand trembled as he brought it up, waiting, expecting the physical punishment of a slap. But instead of a slap, a small round smooth object was placed in his palm.

“Eat it,” she instructed, voice neutral.

He brought it up to his mouth, still expecting something horrible.

But it wasn’t. It was just a candy. A small jellybean, grape flavor. He sucked on it slowly, afraid to eat it too fast. However, there was no further reprimand. She stood quietly until he swallowed.

“Good. I will give you the opportunity to correct your mistake later this afternoon. Now, up, come with me. It’s time for lunch.”

She brought him to the mess hall, where hot, ready-made stew was being served into plastic bowls at the far corner, wards lining up to get their portions. He stepped forward to join them.

“Not you,” she said, and took his arm, pulling him off to the side to the wall. “Sit on the floor.”

He did, thinking that since he was new, that he would be allowed to collect his food last.

But the line went, the last person was served, and Mrs. Cleveland still hadn’t instructed him to collect his meal. He was already tired and stressed, adding hunger on top of that wasn’t a smart idea.

Maybe, he reasoned, he was expected to only wait until everyone else had been served and then get into the line? He could hear the ward serving the meal starting to clean up. If he didn’t move now, he would lose his chance. He pushed himself up.

The shock to the back of his neck was sudden and painful, making him fall back against the wall with a gasp. There was a moment of collective silence in the room, and then some laughter. But most of the the other wards were quiet and watchful.

“3A, who told you to stand?” Mrs. Cleveland demanded for everyone to hear, standing just to his right.

A quick move and he was on his knees to address her properly. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Sit down, butt on the floor. Now.” She waited a moment for him to comply. “Do you think you have earned the right to eat?”

This was familiar enough, and he answered in a low tone, meant to please his supervisor with his obedience and humility. “It is not my place to decide what I have earned. I only strive to be more productive to fulfil my lease obligation and repay those who provide for me.”

There was a pause. It was easy to tell she had not expected him to answer with official Centre propaganda, but she didn’t sound offended. “Correct. You have not earned a meal, you may have this instead.”

She passed him something hard and rectangular. He wasn’t sure what it was. A wafer?

“Go ahead and eat it.”

He took a bite. It was dry, without flavor. The edge crumbled as he bit into it, so that he had to be careful not to make a mess. He ate the entire thing. “May I have something to drink, please?”

“You may. It is against Centre regulations to withhold water, you may drink any time you ask,” she said, and she held a water bottle in front of him, he expected her to pass it, but she didn’t. “There’s a straw,” she explained and tapped the tip of it against his lip. He found it, and sipped.

He drank quickly, afraid she would take it away, but she did not. She held it for him for as long as he needed and he drank the entire bottle. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, 3A,” she said. “You may have a bathroom break now, and then a short rest before you begin your afternoon lesson. Go ahead and then return to my office after you relieve yourself.”

There was one bathroom in the hall with several urinals, toilet stalls and sinks. He used it quickly and returned to her office, like she asked. “You may kneel and quietly recite your tenets until it is time to return to the lunch room for your next lesson.”

*****

Foggy was nervous. He was early, he knew, but this was important. Their first official “lesson”. He had no idea what to expect, but he suspected it wouldn’t be pleasant. _Or_ useful. Still, he had to play along if he ever wanted to stand a chance at owning Matt’s lease.

He’d been told to go down to the basement level and wait in front of the elevator. He’d sat down in the neat row of plastic chairs, then gotten up and paced, then sat down again. He was playing with the wrist strap at the end of Matt’s foldable walking cane, which they had asked him to bring.

“Mr. Nelson.”

He jumped up at his name being called. The voice was unpleasant, high. Grating.

“My name is Darren Sanders, I will supervise your lessons with your ward. Come with me,” he told him. “Your ward is ready.”

Foggy wanted to tell him that his name was Matt, but this time, he bit his tongue and wordlessly followed the man.

The hallways down here were dimly lit, and at the very end of it to the right, he was led to a large hall with neat rows of tables and back-less benches. It reminded Foggy of a prison mess hall. Or maybe that was exactly what it was.

Matt was sitting at the edge of one of the benches, his head bowed, his hands folded in his lap. He looked very forlorn. Foggy’s heart clenched. Had they broken him already? Then Matt’s head perked up when he realized who had just entered the room.

“3A,” Sanders intoned. “Join us.”

Foggy watched Matt get to his feet immediately, letting his hand lightly glide along the edges of the tables he was walking past. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, which Foggy knew Matt didn’t like. Matt stopped two feet away from him and Sanders.

“Matt,” Foggy couldn’t help but blurt out.

Sanders corrected him immediately. “We call the wards by the first two digits of their ID number here. Three, if there are duplicates. Your ward is to be addressed as 3A.”

Foggy didn’t dare contradict. Sanders continued, “Give him his cane.”

Foggy felt like a school boy, yet he reached out and lightly touched the back of Matt’s hand, who automatically held it out. Foggy placed the folded cane in it.

Matt nodded curtly. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” God, this was stupid.

“Let me give you the lay of the land,” Sanders told them. “We will have a morning and an afternoon session every day, except on Saturdays, which only has a morning session, and Sundays, with no sessions. Sessions can range from a half hour up to two hours, depending on the tasks to be performed.

“If there is preparation work involved, I will tell you beforehand. I trust you have read the PDF file you were given?”

“I have,” Foggy confirmed. And, yes, he had. It was all bullshit. Pages and pages of useless drivel on how to have wards properly adhere to the tenets, and how to effectively discipline them if they didn’t. Chapters on how to house wards, minimum requirements, calorie intake recommendations, task allocation matrices, the works. It had given Foggy a sick feeling in his stomach, just reading that crap.

“Most lessons follow the same general structure. During our evaluation period, your ward will be given an assignment or a task for each lesson, and you, as his primary supervisor, will watch how he does. Further actions will be discussed, based on your ward’s performance, and lessons learned will be recapped for both of you to act on in the future. I may give you further guidance or instructions along the way. Any questions?”

“No, sir,” Matt said obediently.

“Can I speak to him during the lesson?” Foggy asked.

“It is not recommended to intervene with the ward’s tasks as he does them. That would be counterproductive for evaluation of his performance.”

Foggy had suspected this, but didn’t like hearing it confirmed. This would suck royally, if he wasn’t even able to talk to Matt or give him pointers if he was going wrong.

“3A,” Sanders addressed Matt, “there’s a bucket, cleaning detergent and a cloth underneath the sink by the counters. Your task is to clean the green tables in this room. Do you have any questions?”

“No, sir,” Matt intoned again.

“But he—” Foggy began, but Sanders held up a hand to silence Foggy immediately.

“3A, you can get started.”

Foggy felt a surge of anger in the pit of his stomach. How was Matt supposed to clean the green tables, when he couldn’t tell apart their colors? Not even his heightened senses could help with that. And the asshole Sanders wasn’t letting him intervene. This didn’t bode well.

Sanders led Foggy off to the side where they sat down in two chairs that looked as if they had been placed there especially for the lesson. Matt found the tools by the sink and started preparing everything, and Foggy wondered what Matt was going to do.

What Matt did, of course, was to clean all the tables—methodically, from the front left to the back right. He wiped each and every one of them meticulously, making sure to leave them as clean and dry as possible with the cloth he’d been given. It took over half an hour.

When Matt was finished with the last table, he emptied the bucket into the sink, wrung out the cloth, and placed it neatly over the rim of the bucket. Almost expectantly, he walked over to where Foggy and Sanders were sitting.

Sanders got up. “So, 3A, tells us if you think you correctly completed the task you were given.”

Foggy started at Matt’s face, who looked unsure, but eventually said, “Yes, I did.”

Sanders turned to Foggy. “Tell me if you think he correctly completed the task.”

“He was asked to clean the green tables, and the green tables are all clean, so I’d say yes.”

“Congratulations,” Sanders said, “You have both failed.”

Foggy’s face fell. “Mr. Nelson, tell me why your ward has failed his assignment.”

Foggy didn’t want to say it, but it wasn’t like he had a choice, was it? “He cleaned all the tables, and not just the green ones.”

“Correct,” Sanders confirmed.

“You know that he can’t tell which tables are green. This task was not fair.”

“Oh, but it was. Tell me what your ward could have done to complete the task correctly.”

“I don’t know. Getting his sight back?”

Sanders didn’t react to Foggy’s snarky remark. Instead, he turned to Matt. “3A, what could you have done to complete the task correctly?”

“Ask for clarification,” Matt answered hesitantly.

“Aha. Your ward is actually surprisingly astute. Because, yes, indeed, you should have asked for clarification on which of the tables were green, and which were not. Recite tenet number two for me.”

“Productivity. A good ward works tirelessly and is worth only as much as he produces.”

“You have worked tirelessly, and you have produced a favorable outcome, but you have not been as productive as you could have, because you spent time on completing work for something that was not part of your task. You have failed to follow tenet number two. Mr. Nelson, what do you think the consequences for this should be?”

Oh shit. Consequences. His mind blanked completely, and he stammered, “I, uh… we should make sure my ward,” he refused to call Matt 3A, “understands his error, and does better next time.”

“Well, yes, that is a given, but don’t you think there should be a form of punishment for his errors?”

“He… But he could not tell the color of the tables. This really wasn’t fair. He’s understood what he’s done wrong, and he will not make this mistake again. Isn’t that enough?”

“No, Mr. Nelson, it is _not_ enough. Punishment is a well-recognized form of enforcing improved behavior, and it has proven extremely effective with our cadre of wards.”

Sanders reached into his back pocket and produced what looked like a flexible plastic ruler. He held it out to Foggy, who reluctantly took it.

“This is called a switch. It is a Centre-endorsed instrument that produces just the right amount of sting without injury. Have you ever used one?”

Foggy was horrified. “No.”

“Would you like me to show you how to properly use it?”

“No,” Foggy immediately said.

“It is important that the right amount of force is used to reinforce the lesson to be learned.”

“I got it,” Foggy said quickly.

He gripped the switch in his right hand, his left balling into a fist. _I’m sorry, Matt,_ he said silently to himself, wishing Matt could hear it. _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry._

Matt was standing erect in front of him, his jaw set. He knew what was coming, seemingly ready to face whatever he needed to face.

Foggy dry-swallowed, his voice getting stuck in his throat. “Hold out your hand,” he croaked. “Palm down.”

Matt did as he was told. Foggy swung the switch testingly in the direction of the back of Matt’s hand. It collided with Matt’s skin with a light thwap. Matt didn’t move a single muscle.

Sanders’ voice interrupted the silence. “Not so shy, Mr. Nelson. Remember when I said ‘sting without injury’? Your first attempt hardly qualified as that.”

Foggy felt sick. He wanted to throw the damn thing away and run from the room. It was Matt’s voice that kept him there. “Do it. I deserve it.”

_No, Matt, you don’t._ As if his hand was guided by an invisible force he had no control over, Foggy swung the switch again, this time with more momentum. The sound was sharper this time, the impact clearly noticeable. Matt flinched, but quickly returned to his stoic pose.

“Better,” Sanders said. “Now do it again. As often as you deem necessary.”

Foggy hit twice more. The back of Matt’s hand was already red, with a few white streaks that looked like they were swelling. Foggy wanted to puke. _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,_ repeated in his head. He forced himself to look away from Matt’s hand.

It was Sanders’ voice that saved him in the end. “Now, 3A, tell us what you were just punished for.”

Matt’s face was inscrutable, and Foggy hated that Matt was taking this with so much dignity. “I did not complete my task the way it was intended, and I did not ask for clarification so that the task could have been completed more productively.”

“And what have you learned for the future from this?”

“That I will ask for help if I am given a task that is not clear to me so I can be as productive as possible.”

“Excellent. We’re already making progress here. Now, tell me what tenet four says.”

“Appreciation. A good ward is thankful for having his welfare managed.”

“Indeed.”

Even before Sanders could say anything else, Matt turned to Foggy and said, “Thank you for giving me this opportunity to become a better ward. This has been very useful.”

Foggy could see that Sanders was impressed. Foggy himself wanted to puke more than ever. It was scary how fast Matt could slip back into old habits. He realized that the term ‘acting’ didn’t quite cover it—not for Matt.

Foggy considered ending this right here, right now. But then what? Rosalind would keep Matt here, with her wards, indefinitely, and Foggy would never get legal ownership of him. No. They had to play along. It was the only way.

Did Matt also know this? He needed to tell him, needed him to know that this was going to be temporary, that he was getting Matt out of there for good.

“Mr. Sanders, can I have a word with my ward in private?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Foggy was taken aback. That had been more of a courtesy question than a request. Sanders added, “Your ward is now part of a strict training program that specifically prohibits fraternization outside of the allotted social contact points.”

“But I need to speak with him.”

“Then this will have to wait until his prepping regimen has concluded.”

“And when is that?”

“It is up to your ward how well he performs, but our training periods usually last at least a week.”

A week?! He couldn’t talk to Matt for a week? Impossible. He’d have to find a way around that. How could he pass a message to Matt in the meantime? He wished he could shoot him a look, or communicate with hand gestures. Did Matt know Morse code? Could Foggy learn it quickly enough to use it? Matt had crazy acute hearing, maybe— Foggy had an idea.

“Well,” he said, “in that case please communicate to me as soon as I can speak with my ward. Is there anything else planned for today’s lesson?”

“No,” Sanders told him, “this is where we normally conclude the lesson, unless you have further concerns or questions.”

“Nope. No questions, thank you.”

“Then I will see you at 10 a.m. tomorrow morning, same meeting point. Please re-read chapter five in the PDF that we provided, it will be important for your next lesson.”

“Okay,” Foggy said. “I will see you tomorrow.”

He exited room, but didn’t leave right away. He looked around, and when he was reasonably sure that no one was here with him, he bent down to tie his shoe. With his head bowed, he whispered, “Matt, I’m sorry. This was awful, I’m sorry I had to do this to you. I’ll get you out of here, I promise. I just need some time, okay? I’ll find a way for us to talk. I hope you’re okay, buddy. I miss you.”

He hoped to God that Matt had picked it up, wherever he was being taken now.


	64. No more dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt is on his own to begin his training. Endurance is everything. (Look away, look away.)

 

The words echoed in Matt’s mind the rest of that afternoon, long after Foggy was gone.

_I’ll get you out of here, I promise… Buddy. I miss you._

Even just thinking about it made his hand sting, but he didn’t care about the welt on his hand.

This was _Foggy._ Foggy had hurt him. Deliberately. Foggy had wielded a corrective instrument and hurt him with it. Foggy had hurt him because he’d been told to do it. And, what hurt even more was that having to do it had hurt Foggy. Foggy had been hurt because of him. He would do anything for Foggy, but he couldn’t keep him safe from the damn system.

Matt sometimes daydreamed about stupid things like what a normal life would be like. About being free, to be Foggy’s friend and walk normally down the street. He daydreamed about having his own apartment, of making his own decisions, of being in control of his own life.

More realistically, he dreamed about coming home and eating a fresh meal with Foggy. He dreamed about lying on a couch and having a nap after working, of laughing at Foggy’s jokes.

He had a dream of Foggy standing up for him against those who wanted him hurt and humiliated. That wasn’t reality. It would hurt them both if Foggy did something like that.

Yes, there was the _plan_ to consider now _._ Foggy had to act like a real supervisor. The sooner Foggy proved he could control his ward; the sooner Matt could go home.

 _But Foggy could have said no._ He could have argued just a little bit. He could have said—

It wasn’t like Foggy didn’t try. He had. The task was rigged from the start. There was nothing Foggy could have said that would have changed anything.

He thought about Foggy’s secret apology. No apology was needed, they were both being manipulated. The supervisor knew that he and Foggy were friends and this was how he was going to try and tear them apart. No matter what, Matt promised himself he would persevere. The system wasn’t going to win.  He and Foggy were stronger than that.

But, there was still work to be done. Mrs. Cleveland had collected him after the lesson, and taken him back to the room of chairs, giving him the order to restack chairs in groups of eight. The door shut and locked behind him, leaving Matt alone with his task.

What did it matter if the chairs were stacked in groups of ten or eight? It didn’t matter at all. Just like his life. It was all just a matter of endurance.

*****

Endurance was something Matt needed down here, especially with Mrs. Cleveland being his prep supervisor. Her pointless chair stacking task was finally done. He half expected her to come back and tell him he’d done it wrong again. She’d tell him the chairs should be on the other side of the room, or stacked in groups of six, or wouldn’t it be even better if she had him restack them in groups of ten. She’d tell him that was what she’d demanded all along?

He sat down and leaned back against the wall. So what? She could do whatever she wanted. He’d been through all this before, and these were normal tactics used by supervisors to wear wards down. It wasn’t anything personal. It wasn’t even anything special. Training. Pointless work to wear him down, to get used to following orders and rules without question. Reprogramming. Wards were nothing more than chattel to be trained and used and discarded. Regular Centre-endorsed dehumanizing bullshit.

So what if he spent a week stacking chairs? He could do this. It didn’t matter. Whatever happened, Foggy would figure something out and bring him home. Just like when Foggy fought to bring him home when he’d been detained at Christmas. Foggy had come through for him then, and he would come through for him now. It was just a matter of waiting. He listened to other sounds in rooms around him, buzzing fluorescent lights, the furnace humming loudly. Free people on the floors above him, going about their free lives, walking, talking about what they were going to have for dinner, what TV shows they were watching that evening. Normal life continued all around. He could go back to something like that with Foggy.

He jerked awake to sudden movement and a loud bang as the door slammed shut. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. The long bamboo pole Mrs. Cleveland carried snapped against his thigh, and he flinched.

Matt automatically moved his arm to block the second hit of the switch, and it struck his forearm hard enough to cause an immediate welt. Supervisor Cleveland made a dissatisfied noise, and he immediately recognized his mistake. He knew better than to block a punishment. Resistance only instigated harsher punishments, and he quickly repositioned himself into a kneeling position with his hands behind his back to demonstrate his compliance as she whipped his leg again.  

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he said quickly, attempting to show that he understood what he’d done wrong.

“Do you consider your task complete, 3A?”

He felt a stab of panic that there was something he might have forgotten or overlooked, but no, he’d been told to stack the chairs again and that was what he’d done. “Yes, sir.”

She walked the length of the room and then back to him. “Kneel properly.”

He wasn’t sure what that meant, he was already kneeling. He straightened his back as much as he was able, hoping that was what she wanted.

The bamboo switch thwacked against his ankle next, and he quickly brought his feet closer together. There was another hit against his low back, and he pulled his hips up higher. He tried to— oh. Asking. Asking for guidance if he didn’t know how to do something—that had been his lesson earlier. This was a _lesson._ Just like everything was a lesson.

“Please teach me how to kneel properly?”

She walked in another circle around him.

It surprised him when she did describe how she wanted him. “Knees at ninety degrees, back straight, feet and heels together. Chin up. Good. Hands clasped behind your back,” she instructed and continued moving around him.

It didn’t take long for his knees to start hurting from the pressure against the hard floor. He shifted a bit to the side to take some of the weight off his right knee.

 _Whack._ He was hit on the outer part of his thigh again.

Breathe through it. He didn’t dare move and tried to remain perfectly still. He hoped he wouldn’t be forced to kneel like this for too long, but didn’t dare ask how long it would be. Fortunately, Supervisor Cleveland had already spent as much time as she intended on the current lesson and snapped her fingers, ordering him to follow along.

They didn’t go far. She stopped him at the supply closet and ordered him to mop the hallway floor next. At least this was real work and he was grateful to have something halfway useful to do and not be forced to endure yet another pointless lesson.

*****

Mopping the floor was simple enough, but the space in the hallway he was able to work with was limited. The proximity shock system that came with his anklet was set to activate his shock collar if he dared to venture past designated areas.

Prohibited areas, he had been told, included anything within ten feet of the elevator or the hallway that employees used to access the parking garage. It also included supervisor offices, the kitchen, or certain supply rooms. The shrill beep that the ankle sensor would emit when he approached a forbidden area might be a useful warning system for normal wards, but for Matt it wasn’t even necessary. The ominous feeling of the collar warming up its charge was enough for him to know he was getting too close.

Under normal circumstances, he didn’t hate mopping. Working was better than sitting for hours and not working. The repetitive movements were calming, but not here, not with the constant fear of being shocked. To his right was another doorway he could not cross, the door wide open. He made very careful movements with the mop, but there was the prickling feeling of static again at the back of his neck as the PSS warning sensor was activated. His concentration faltered. He quickly brought the mop back for another swipe and—

It all happened so quickly. Why hadn’t he heard the shoes of the person tapping down the hall? Even worse, he realized it was Mrs. Cleveland that he had accidentally tripped with the mop, causing her to lose her footing. Before Matt could do anything, she stumbled hard, and before he could reach out and try to catch her, she was already on her way down. At least he managed to catch her arm and save her from hitting her head on the door frame, but her coffee went flying to the side and all over the floor into the office where he was forbidden to be.

Fuck. And by the smell, it wasn’t just coffee. It was the distinctive aroma of the fancy expensive coffee you could get just a couple of doors down from the office building. Distantly he noted the smell of caramel and nutmeg.

His stomach flipped uneasily. He knew how bad this was.

He knelt beside her. “I’m sorry, are you okay? Please let me help.”

She said nothing, but she did accept his help to stand back up. It was only then that she placed her hands on her hips and stood there. Seething. She wasn’t hurt, thankfully, but Matt immediately knew the punishment for this was going to be bad. He quickly knelt down, taking the kneeling position she’d taught him in the chair stacking room, he lowered his head, “I’m sorry, sir, please,” and his voice was quiet, pleading. His heart pounded with fear. He’d been in this position before. He knew what supervisors could do in anger.

“Clean up this mess. Right now!” Her tone was sharp.

That was it?

Matt complied immediately, using the mop to clean the coffee mess as quickly as he could. The only problem was he couldn’t reach far enough into the office. His back prickled with gooseflesh as his collar responded to the proximity of the electric barrier.

“The rest of it. Now,” she said sternly. “There’s more of the mess inside the office.”

He swallowed. “The anklet...” he started and stopped suddenly as she lashed out with her stick. His arm stung where she’d whipped him.

“Are you refusing my order?” Supervisor Cleveland demanded.

He shook his head quickly. “No, sir. I’m not refusing.”

So this was it.

The whistling noise as she swung the stick through the air again made him flinch even before it connected with his flesh. He didn’t dare try and defend himself.

She wanted him to mop the spilled coffee in the office. She had to know his ankle sensor prevented him from going past the threshold. That was the punishment. He stumbled a little as she whipped him again.

“You think you’re funny?” she demanded.

He shook his head very quickly, “My collar will activate if I cross the line, please don’t make me—”

She didn’t even let him finish. “You should have thought of that before attacking me.”

Attacking? “No, I’m sorry, it was an accident. I didn’t hear you coming.”

“You think I don’t know what you’re up to?” Her voice was high with anger and indignation.

“Please, I promise it was an accident. I should have been paying more attention.” Did she think he’d attacked her? He didn’t even want to think what the punishment for that would be. They might even just send him straight back to the market. He’d never get to be with Foggy again.

“Clean the mess in this office,” she said resolutely. Matt could sense that she was pointing at the open the door to his right.

The sensor would go off; his collar would activate. His neck was already sore from earlier when it had activated, and he knew the power of this kind of infraction would cause a much worse shock. How many times in the past had he endured the shock collar? It was common to use the shock collar as a warning, some supervisors used it just to watch their wards flinch, but the voltage behind those jolts was often low. He knew how much worse it could get. He knew how much power the collar was capable of delivering. He remembered the pain, how it felt like his nerves were on fire, the lasting burn from electrodes, the possibility of infection from untreated wounds. Foggy never shocked him. Matt had scars but they were healed. To go through that all again...

“3A, this is _not_ a request.”

If she reported that he’d attacked her the penalty was going to be much worse than just getting shocked. He could do this. He only needed to be here for a week and then he’d be back with Foggy again. “Yes, sir,” he stammered.

The collar was buzzing with heat and electricity already, the anklet started beeping as he took a step closer. He didn’t have a choice.

He crossed the doorway. It took about five seconds for the first shock to hit him in the back of the neck. He could feel it all the way down to his shoulder blades. His muscles tensed reflexively, and the mop fell from his fingers.

He clenched his teeth and picked it up. He started mopping as quickly as he could. Every five seconds, another shock hit. The anklet beeped incessantly until Cleveland switched the sound off with a button on her remote control.

He couldn’t mop fast enough or with any precision between shocks. His arms were starting to seize up, tiny muscle spasms vibrating around his collarbone and neck.

“Please stop,” he let out in a pained whisper. But she didn’t.

“Keep going, 3A. I know you can do better than that.”

He wanted to reply, but another shock hit, and his jaw clenched and he bit his tongue. He tried to concentrate on where there was coffee left on the floor. He couldn’t… he couldn’t tell. Everything was blurry, his senses buzzing, the back of his neck on fire.

He randomly steered the mop in a direction he thought would work. Another shock. His hand seized and the handle slipped from his grasp again. The mop clattered to the floor.

“Pick it up. Come on,” she said mockingly.

He couldn’t. The shocks were getting stronger. Another shock hit even before he could find the handle on the floor. He dropped to his knees. “Please,” he said through clenched teeth. “Please st—”

“What is this?” a familiar voice broke through the haze. Sanders. Another shock and Matt curled up, he couldn’t even hear what was being said, everything was just a haze. He doubled over and braced himself with his hands on the floor as another shock tore through him and he cried out involuntarily.

Five more seconds, anticipating another… Matt didn’t know how much more he could endure, but it didn't come. He took a tentative breath and then breathed in deeper. Awareness started creeping back in, and he realized his knees were wet from the spilled coffee.  He flinched when he felt a hand on his mid-back.

Sanders' hand. Sanders crouched beside him.  

“3A, did you deliberately make Mrs. Cleveland trip?”

Matt’s voice was shaky when he responded, “No. It was an accident.” He forgot to say sir.

Sanders sounded annoyed when he addressed Cleveland. “See me in my office after your shift.”

“Yes, Mr. Sanders,” she said, her voice lacking her usual assertiveness.

 “Alright, up you get,” Sanders said to Matt, wrapping his hand around his arm, pulling him up.

Matt struggled to get to his feet, wincing as the collar rubbed against the back of his neck.

Sanders firmly gripped his upper arm and led him down the hall. Not into Sanders office, but into— no. This room was off limits too and he couldn’t help but pull back as they got too close, reflexively reacting even as he knew he shouldn’t resist but...

“It’s okay, 3A. Come with me,” Sanders kept a firm but gentle grip on his arm, coaxing him forward.

All the same, he felt his muscles seize up, dreading what was to come. His step faltering as Sanders pulled him through another forbidden doorway.

Nothing. Matt sighed, feeling exhausted and confused and defeated.

“Sit.”

Matt sat where Sanders guided him, surprised to be sitting in a chair and not on the floor. The room smelled like oranges and coffee and stale sandwiches. Water ran from the tap into the sink and he could hear Sanders doing something at a counter.

“Lean forward.”

Matt had done this before, at the laundry factory. Sit, lean forward, head on table. Or kneel and place his head down on the seat of a chair. His supervisor lifted his shirt and used a switch, whipping his back.  

That didn’t happen.

Sanders touched his collar, tugged on it, and, _click,_ the collar was removed.

Matt held his breath and gasped suddenly as something cold and wet pressed against the back of his neck. It was painful, but not the kind of pain he’d been expecting.

Sanders spoke quickly, his voice not far from Matt’s ear. “Quiet now. It’s cold water; I’m not going to hurt you. There’s quite the burn on the back of your neck from your collar. Based on those scars there, that’s nothing new, is it? Looks like you’ve got quite the knack of getting into trouble, don’t you?”

Matt stayed still, unsure how to answer.

“Here’s the thing. Despite your limitations, you know how to work hard. You’ve got another two lessons with your lease supervisor tomorrow. If you learn both your lessons well, I’ll integrate you with the working wards.”

“No more prep?” he chanced to ask.

Sanders chuckled. “Yeah, kid. If you impress me tomorrow, you’ll be done with your prep.”

That was almost too good to be true. No more special training, no more Supervisor Cleveland. A sense of hope washed over him.

Sanders wasn’t lecturing or demanding him to answer questions. Matt felt so grateful for the respite. The cool cloth and peace of the break room and being away from Supervisor Cleveland felt like safety after a storm.

The man then sat down at the table, sighing deeply.

“I realize it may be difficult for you to understand, but being a ward is not punitive. Our policies and methods have been developed and approved by leading sociologists and psychologists from around the world. We are rehabilitating you for a better future.”

“Yes, sir,” Matt answered. Tenet number four. _Appreciation. A good ward is thankful for having his welfare managed._ He knew what he had to say. “Thank you, I appreciate the opportunity to be rehabilitated.”

**Author's Note:**

> Me, writing fanfiction: *posts new chapter*  
> *thirty seconds later*  
> Me: *reopens tab* where are the reviews
> 
> Come and visit me on Tumblr, chat with me, send a message.  
> [http://citlalique.tumblr.com/](http://citlalique.tumblr.com)  
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> 
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